The Bond
by aadarshinah
Summary: Believing Archer to be dead after destroying the Xindi weapon, Trip and T'Pol find comfort in each other, to some surprising results. Season 4 rewrite starting with "Storm Front, Pt2." TnT. AU. Formerly called "A Grief Shared"
1. Storm Front

**The Change  
**A _Star Trek: Enterprise_ Story

* * *

_"Sail Forth - steer for the deep waters only._  
_Reckless O soul, exploring. I with thee and thou with me._  
_For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared go._  
_And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all."_

**- - Walt Whitman's "Passage to India" - -**

* * *

Storm Front

* * *

For a moment, she felt relief, knowing he was back aboard. Every second he and Ensign Mayweather had been down below, on World War Two Earth, she had been terrified that something would happen to him – that she would lose him, just like she'd thought she lost Captain Archer. Her emotional control had been severely compromised by the death of her human captain and his subsequent return from the planet they had thought him on; T'Pol did not want to know what would become of her if she lost her human-

There were not words for what Commander Tucker – Trip – was to her, not in Vulcan. Words like "colleague" and "associate" did not describe the flurry of emotions that the commander had engendered in her from their very first meeting, but they were the best that her language had. No Vulcan colleague had ever enraged her so, nor would have actively sought to anger her as he did. The mere memory of their heated confrontation on the bridge during their first mission together was enough to cause spikes of anger in her even now, years after. No Vulcan colleague would have told her about decrypting and reading her personal correspondence either, nor would have seemed genuinely apologetic about it when found out. No Vulcan colleague would have so persistently tried to invade her personal space – would never have asked her age, or persisted in getting her to attend "movie night" had such a thing existed on Vulcan vessels, - nor would have been so genuinely concerned after her well-being when he realized he'd made her uncomfortable. Before meeting Trip, no one had ever asked what she wanted, and it had never occurred to her to ask the same of herself.

She was a maverick for her kind. She was already on her third career when most women her age would be starting families, putting aside their jobs for a decade or two to raise children. Her choice to work for the security directorate had been considered an unusual occupation for so young a Vulcan, and her mother had been her species' equivalent of overjoyed when she'd decided to persue a career in the High Command instead. Her posting to Earth was only ever have supposed to have been brief – a six-month service at the embassy as interim director of the scientific exchange program between Earth and Vulcan while the man who normally held the position, Storak, returned to Vulcan before the... unpleasant... realities of _pon farr_ overcame him – but the human's move to launch _Enterprise_ early had not been anticipated, and she was the best qualified amongst the Vulcans then on Earth to be sent to mind them.

And now T'Pol could not think of leaving them.

Could not think of leaving him.

There were many things she could blame it on, if she thought about it. The _pa'nar_. The trellium. The lack of time to meditate. The stress of being in command of a human vessel that had just lost its captain. The knowledge that, with their mission over, if Starfleet would not grant her a commission, the High Command would demand she be returned to Vulcan. But the fact of the matter was, after Lieutenant Reed told them that Captain Archer was dead, she had never felt more broken inside – and not because of her own grief, though it was strong, but because, it hurt her to see Commander Tucker – Trip – hurting too.

Oh, T'Pol tried to ignore the feeling, to push past her grief like she had so many other emotions and continue with her duties, but throughout her shift her thoughts kept drifting back to Commander Tucker – Trip – as she wondered how he was. It would have been better if there was something, anything available to distract herself with, but, with the Aquatic ship taking them back to Earth, most systems that would normally require monitoring were offline and only the most pressing of repairs were under way. So, unable to help herself, she worried about Commander Tucker – Trip; - unable to help herself, she'd found herself calling on him after her shift ended...

* * *

_...He was in his cabin, his own shift just over and his careful, almost-Vulcan mask of sublimated grief starting to break down. "What are you doing here, T'Pol?" he asked, not moving from his position on his bed and sounding more tired than she'd heard him in many weeks, as if he was almost broken, as if this was one straw too many._

_"I was concerned about your mental state."_

_Looking away from her towards the window that showed only the docking bay of the ship they now rode inside, he humourlessly told her, "I'm not going to off myself, if that's what you're thinking."_

_She was unfamiliar with the term but, thinking it inappropriate, did not seek clarification at the moment. "I was not thinking anything of the sort. I merely thought you could use friend."_

_As he turned back towards her, his expression slightly sheepish, T'Pol was forced to admit she had formed a friendship of sorts with this angry, argumentative alien. For some reason or another, his well-being had somehow become integral to her own. The very thought that he might spend another nine months hurting for the captain's death as he had his sister's caused a pain that was almost physical within her. _

_Impulsively, T'Pol sat down beside him and placed an arm around him, as she had seen humans do in the movies he'd insisted she view, and, after a moment more, rested her head against his shoulder. After an amount of time she couldn't judge, he managed, "You know, at least one good thing's come of this all."_

_"And what would that be?"_

_"You. When we started out, you wouldn't even shake my hand, and now look at you."_

_"I have discovered the human need for physical contact is not quite as illogical as I once thought."_

_"Oh, really?"_

_"I will admit I myself find it... soothing... at times."_

_She sensed more than saw his frown return. "I just can't imagine he's gone. I know we've been in some tough scrapes before, but he's always..." And then there were no more words, just emotions, and she held him as he cried, and found herself not fighting back the tears that were forming in her own eyes. She should have run from such a display of emotion, should've hidden herself away at her body's own rebellious sharing of her feelings, but didn't. Instead, she stayed, and if Commander Tucker – Trip – found anything odd about it, he was gracious enough not to say anything. He just let her hold him, and, eventually, they both exhausted themselves and their tears, falling asleep on his bunk in a tangled mess of limbs and blankets._

_She could've made excuses hours later, when she'd woken, her entire body feeling leaden with grief. She could've left, and he might've thought he'd only imagined her spending the night in his bed. A better Vulcan than she would've, but she'd realized several weeks ago that she'd never been that kind of Vulcan. If she had been, she'd not have been here in the first place. She'd have left when her original ten day tour was over, or when Koss's parents had called her home, or before entering the Expanse, or any of a dozen other times. She had_ wanted _these emotions, had courted them with her use of trellium-D, and had to learn to deal with them the human way._

_So she stayed, feeling more in control of herself than she had in ages as she lay in his arms. And, when Trip had eventually woken, she did not dissemble about her presence, but turned and leaned into his embrace. _

_"Please tell me this is just a dream," he whispered._

_Confused and feeling more than a little foolish, she began to pull away, "I apologize if I have misunderstood the situation-"_

_Trip responded by gripping her tighter. "No, stay, please. I'm just surprised, that's all." At her questioning brow, barely visible in the dimmed light of his quarters, he explained, "I thought you would've left by now."_

_"I didn't want to be alone."_

_"Neither do I. It's just..." He propped himself up on one elbow and, almost nervously, tugged at the collar of his slept-in uniform, "...just tell me this isn't going to be another experiment."_

_Swallowing back pre-formulated responses on the illogic of human-Vulcan relationships, T'Pol ran through every experience she had, trying to find words to tell him that she held him in higher regard than she did any other human; that she'd missed his presence during that period of time immediately after their sexual encounter, when they'd each done their best to avoid the other and that this had been why she'd, eventually, sought him out again, even if only to argue; that she could, honestly, no longer imagine a future without him in it, and, while she didn't know what such a level of attachment might mean, all she knew was that she had lost one friend that day, and the thought of loosing him too made her positively ill. But, in all her years, she'd never felt this way before, and so had no words. She didn't know if, honestly, she could handle a relationship – of any sort – with someone as emotional and illogical as Trip, but she'd rather have that friendship than live without it._

_But her silence carried on too long, and, disappointment colouring his features, Trip began to climb out of the bed. Panic set in at the thought – no, the absolute knowledge – that, if she let him go now, he'd be lost to her forever, and she grabbed his arm to stop him._

_He turned back to look at her, a faint trace of the usual human surprise at Vulcan strength taking place of some of the sadness, and T'Pol raised herself up enough to kiss him, gently but thoroughly, on the lips. "I will be here as long as you'll have me," she whispered, her voice sounding faint and uncertain to her own ears. It almost had embarrassed her that she, who had lived twice as long as he and seen more than he could possibly imagine of the galaxy, had sounded so young._

_Voice heavy with emotions she daren't guess at, "And if that's for longer than just tonight?"_

"_We'll have to leave for our duty shifts eventually," she countered, "but I wouldn't be adverse to joining you here afterwards."_

_Pulling his arm away, "God damn it, T'Pol!" Striding over to his window, he looked out once more at the Aquatic's docking bay before, obviously not finding what he was looking for in the sight, turning back around, arms crossed defensively in front of him. Frayed – that was the best word to describe him, she thought. How humans could handle so many emotions at once, she could not guess, only that the few coursing through her now – sorrow for loosing the captain, hurt confusion at Trip's actions, and a warm desire in her belly of the sort she'd never experienced before meeting this all-too-unsettling human – were more than enough to keep her on the edge of control_.

_"You misunderstand me, Trip," she tried, but before she could get too far, he was raging again, all of the anger and sorrow coming out in a distinctly human way she, in better times, might've raged against. But she just felt so unbearably tired in the soul that she barely had the strength with which to function, and some part of her, no matter how small, felt that she deserved it for her stupidity. She'd no right to expect anything from him, not after how she'd treated him. In fact, the anger was only justified, and if he knew the other idiocies which she'd taken part in – the mind-meld, the trellium – he'd probably agree with her current assessment that she shouldn't be in command of a starship. That she was here at all was probably the most telling thing of all, and, had the High Command known of it, they would have seen to it that she was never posted away from Vulcan again. She should've cared, but couldn't bring herself to, and took it._

_"What's there to misunderstand? You come in here, fall asleep on my bed; you say these things- God, T'Pol, For all we fight and for all that's screwed up between us, you're my best friend. I don't think I'd've made it through the last few months without your help. You're all I ever think about – you have been, for a long time. Hell, I'm in love with you and, if we're doing to do this, I don't want want some torrid affair that'll last only as long as Starfleet and the High Command will let you stay on _Enterprise_. I want it to be the real thing, forever and a day, and not just because your sad or scared or wanting to 'experience human sexuality' again."_

_There'd been silence for a long moment, and then, "I don't know," she managed at last (Trip already turning away as she said this, which hurt her so much that the next words came out all in a rush), "if I can give you what you want, but I'm willing to try."_

_Trip crossed the room in a single step, his expression immediately changing as one hand came up to grasp her face, the other her waist as he pulled her to him, his lips hard and insistent on hers, and her hands were fumbling to remove his uniform, and, for the first time in a long while, she'd felt like everything was as it was supposed to be..._

* * *

...and now they were finally back at Earth, in the wrong version of their second World War, and he and Ensign Mayweather had had to be sent to the surface to recover the stolen shuttlepod because he was the only one who could fix it and Ensign Mayweather was the only one who could fly it...

She had thought things would be fine when Captain Archer, who suddenly turned out not to be dead at all, had gone back down to the surface and negotiated for their return. Both officers had been returned with minimal injuries considering, or so the transporter operator had reported, and it was only that and the fact that she had the bridge that kept her from heading down to sickbay and seeing for herself.

But it hadn't been him. It had been the Suliban, Silik, and Trip was down there still.

T'Pol tried to remain rational, but that was becoming harder and harder where Trip was concerned. Regardless of the fact that her language had words for neither "friend" or "lover," that was Commander Tucker – Trip – had become to her. It was illogical, but she... she...

She needed him to return from the surface alive.

She needed him.

* * *

a/n: Well, I usually don't try to write two stories at once, but this one was rolling around in my head as I was rewatching seasons 3 & 4, and I couldn't help myself. This will, hopefully, become a full-fledged season 4 rewrite - obviously, taking place from the middle of "Storm Front, Part 2" onwards. Reveiws would be much appreciated.

a/n2: Partially reworked, based on some very helpful comments (cough**Alelou**cough) about my annoying overuse of the pluperfect in this chappie. No content has been changed. 01.10.10


	2. Home, Part One: Family Business

Home

Part One, Family Business

* * *

The worst part about the job, Trip had long ago decided, were the shore leaves. He'd never been a particularly superstitious man, but, since serving on _Enterprise_, he had been shot at, blown up, kidnapped, impregnated, seduced, injured, and otherwise generally harmed every time he'd set foot off the ship. So – quite naturally, in Trip's opinion – he decided he would avoid leaving the ship as much as possible. It wasn't the best solution, but, when comparing the anxiety he sometimes felt when left in behind while Jon, T'Pol, or the others were exploring some strange new culture to the anxiety he felt when that strange new culture invariably decided to shoot, bomb, kidnap, impregnate, seduce, injure, or otherwise harm him, Trip chose the former. If that meant he got to see fewer of those new cultures for himself... well, second contacts seemed to be a lot less dangerous than firsts.

The problem that he hadn't considered, though, was Jon _ordering_ him to take a month's leave while Jupiter Station completed repairs to _Enterprise, _nevermind the fact that it'd take at least as long to go back over everything if he wasn't there to watch them. The boys at Jupiter Station were good engineers, but none had ever been out of the system and so couldn't know how some of their specs didn't quite work as expected when they got out there. Having bemoaned this fact to T'Pol several times over the days that had preceded Jon's order, she'd suggested, quite agitatedly, that, if the technical manuals were written incorrectly, he rewrite them. Needless to say, it'd never been an idea Trip had seriously considered before, but, thinking about all he would have to do to fix the repairs, it was seeming a better idea each day.

T'Pol. Now _there_ was someone he could use a manual for. She had surprised him by coming to his quarters when they thought Jon was dead – hell, she always surprised him. For a member of such a logical and consistent race, she had the tendency to be anything but when it came to, well, whatever the hell they were. There had been times (mostly during the first few months of their mission, but occurring as recently as their meeting with Lorian, their son from an alternate timeline) when he'd thought that she'd like nothing more than to show him to the nearest airlock after one of their arguments, and others when she'd do the complete one-eighty and show up in his cabin all concerned and... Well, even as in love with her as he was, it was close to driving him crazy.

It wasn't even as if things had gotten any easier since she had shown up that night and told him that she would stick around for as long as he wanted, and, for about a day or two, he'd been absolutely sure that there was actually a god out there, because he'd been practically in heaven knowing that they'd saved Earth, restored the timeline, and that T'Pol (more or less) loved him...

And then reality hit.

Oh, it wasn't anything she'd said, but, after a day or so of being most un-Vulcan-ly worried about his well-being – and the most curious comment about how Nazi interrogation tactics seemed to be less severe than Klingon that he'd yet to get a straight answer from her about, - T'Pol had reverted to, well, something he couldn't quite understand. They still spent most their free-time together, and there'd been the added bonus of falling asleep next to her after a private movie night or two, but there'd been no repeat performances of the night they'd spent while hitching a lift from the Aquatics. At first he almost felt he'd been had again, only without the embarrassingly clinical put-down, but that had been before it'd hit him that she was Vulcan.

Not, of course, that he hadn't known that before. She was Vulcan – infuriatingly so – and, in addition to the pointed ears he loved so much and the ability to indicate at least twelve different levels of anger, exasperation, and resignation with the raising of a single eyebrow, T'Pol had not the slightest idea of how to act around someone she was supposed to be dating. (Not, of course, that she'd probably admit to even that much, but he considered the term... artistic liberty.) Vulcans, after all, did not date. They got engaged to people their parents picked out in grade school, went about their business for a couple of decades, got married, and then continued on with their business as if nothing had happened. Affection, if it existed at all, developed long after marriage, and love, well, it probably never came into the picture, least not for most. Considering Vulcans weren't supposed to act on their emotions, the fact that she'd said anything at all to him was probably as much as he could hope to get from her in a long, long while.

There were many things Trip thought he could do for love, but he was only human. He needed _some_ sort of sign from the girl he was seeing – even if it was only a brief touch of his arm, like she'd sometimes done before they'd gotten together – was actually seeing him too before he started worrying that this was all in his head. Which brought him to a curious merging of his two problems:

He was going to convince T'Pol to her spend shore leave with him, and, if he couldn't, he was going to submit himself to Phlox for a full psychiatric work-up.

And so, with a steadying sigh, Trip reached up and pressed the buzzer outside her quarters.

"Come in," she called, not looking up as he entered.

Amused, "Well, it looks like you're taking enough clothes to last a year."

"You wanted something?"

"Told the Captain I wanted to stay aboard and supervise the refit – I know," he raised his hands at her questioning eyebrow, "I know, and you're right. I'll get to work on writing a manual that actually works as soon as I get off this leave. Jon agrees with you, on the getting off-ship part, at least, and suggested I take a break. Ordered it, more like. Problem is, though, I'm not sure where to go with Lizzie dead and my hometown not existing any more... There's always my parents, I suppose, but they were never too happy about me joining Starfleet in the first place and I just don't think I can take _that_ fight again right now."

"I was under the impression you already had plans." At his own questioning look, "I believe you mentioned Tahiti and Cancun."

"That was before every news anchor and talk show host on the planet started calling us all heroes."

T'Pol was silent for a moment before, studiously not looking at him, suggesting, "You could come with me."

_Bingo_. He _knew_ it couldn't all be in his head. With feigned surprise, "To Vulcan?"

"The transport leaves at 1100 if you wish to come. There are few beaches on Vulcan, but you would most likely find your stay there agreeable nonetheless."

"Where would I stay?"

"My mother's house is quite large. I am sure we could come to some accommodation."

Trip couldn't keep the smirk off his face any longer. "Your mom's house, huh? What she know about me? About us?"

"I've never mentioned you."

"Oh?"

"I've never mentioned anyone from _Enterprise_ in my letters," she countered, seeming to pick up on his disappointment. "My mother can be quite... absorbed... with her work, and, were it not for the fact she requires the knowledge to write to me, I would sincerely doubt she knows what ship I serve upon at all."

"We have a word for people like that on Earth: eccentrics."

"An apt enough term." T'Pol continued with her packing.

"What do you talk about then if you don't tell her about your shipmates?"

"My mother is a professor of xenobiology at the Vulcan Science Academy. My letters to her mostly contain information about the various species we encounter on our missions."

"Sounds like fun." She gave a partial shrug in response – a human gesture Trip was certain she'd no idea she'd acquired. He considered for a moment pointing this out to T'Pol before deciding to save that argument for more dire circumstances. "So you'd introduce me as...?"

Appearing confused, she answered, "Commander Charles Tucker the Third," in a manner that suggested this should be obvious.

Perhaps it was. He'd gotten her to agree to letting him met her mother after all; asking for much more than that would be pushing things. "1100, huh? I'd better start packing."

* * *

It was barely 1000 when T'Pol keyed open the gates to her mother's house, but it was already thirty-eight degrees Celsius. Between the still-rising temperature and Vulcan's stronger gravity, Trip had been feeling the need for a nice, long nap after their journey from the spaceport, but nearly all his exhaustion evaporated when he saw her mother's courtyard. It wasn't just that it was easily five degrees cooler than the desert outside or that it contained the first water he'd seen since the transport had landed; it was, quite simply, beautiful. When he'd imagined Vulcan in the past, he'd never thought there might be flowers, let alone artwork, and here were both, right out in the open for anybody to see them. "Volcanoes, ancient ruins, fire plains... Vulcan's not at all like I imagined."

"Meaning?"

"Well, it's kinda romantic."

"Romantic?" she repeated in that tone of hers she only used when seeking clarity on illogical human behaviour as she latched the gate behind them.

"No offence, but I kinda always assumed that Vulcan was a bit, well, boring."

Eyebrow rising, "Boring."

"I was half expecting all the buildings to be perfectly square, and the roads all perfectly spaced and meeting at right angles, and even the mountains and rivers and stuff to be laid out in perfectly logical patterns. But no, it turns out to be like something out of an old adventure novel, all... beautiful and dangerous-looking."

"Vulcans appreciate beauty."

Snorting, "Well, I'd no doubt about that. You always were a snazzy dresser."

"Commander Tucker," she protested, though Trip could see a faint green tinge rising in her cheeks, "I suggest-"

Trip dropped his bags on the paving stones, "Hey now, none of that. We're on vacation, remember. We're just Trip and T'Pol, none of that 'commander' business." Moving to stand in front of her, Trip placed one hand on her waist and used the other to tug on the strap of her own bag. He was surprised at its weight when he finally managed to slip it off her shoulder, but not nearly as surprised as when (after a quick glance towards the sky, as if checking the position of the suns) T'Pol wrapped both her arms around his neck once her hands were free. His voice had become quite heavy to his own ears by the time he finished with a, "Think you can handle that?"

"I shall endeavour to try... The Vulcan Science Academy is in session until late afternoon at this time of year," she added, apparently out of the blue. "My mother will not be home for several hours yet."

"Is that so?" Trip felt his breathing, already heavy from the increased gravity, and his heartbeat quicken as T'Pol allowed him to pull her closer. If he thought her new-found interest in renewing their physical intimacies out of place, he chalked it up to the fact that, for the first time in their relationship, they weren't on a ship with eighty-five other people. Or, perhaps, it had something to do with being back on the planet of her birth. Either way, Trip couldn't find himself caring much for the reasoning behind her actions at the moment, only that they were happening.

"Indeed." Her body pressed closely against his as she rose up to meet his lips for a brief kiss, then slid away as she stepped back and retrieved her bag. "It would be advisable to leave earlier in the day if you wish to see Mount Tar'hana or the fire plains, but there is time before my mother returns-" T'Pol suddenly stopped and he could sense more than see her straighten beside him as he turned to follow her gaze-

Trip went stalk-still himself as he caught sight of a Vulcan woman standing in the doorway of T'Pol's mother's house. Though she appeared to be in her mid-fifties, with Vulcan longevity was taken into account, she was probably much older – which, Trip thought with a sigh, meant that either T'Pol had an aunt that had come to visit or her-

"Mother, you're home." At another time he might've laughed at the emotion that had crept into T'Pol's voice – this a combination of shock and something bordering on horror – but, at the the moment, Trip found himself thinking rather loudly a string of expletives he'd learned from Hoshi when the ensign had gotten injured during one of Major Hayes' training sessions and hoping they were strong enough for the situation.

What T'Pol's mother made of this, Trip couldn't tell, as her mother's response – and T'Pol's answer to it – came in a burst of fast-spoken Vulcan that, even if he had spoken the language, Trip doubted he could've followed. Whatever was being said, though, it clearly was nothing T'Pol wanted to hear, for her spine seemed to stiffen with each passing word until, at last, in a spurt of English, she all but spat, "_Former_ fiancé, Mother."

Still looking at her mother, she continued, "Trip," already walking off, "I'll show you to where you'll be staying."

Pausing only to give T'Pol's mother a half-smile and a, "Nice to meet you, ma'am," he gathered up his bags and followed quickly after. A couple of hallways and a flight of stairs later, T'Pol showed him into a comfortable, if impersonal, bedroom that, if the way she'd set her own bag down and sunk onto to bed was any indication, they'd be sharing.

After several minutes of silence, this seemed to require comment. "Well, _that_ was unexpected."

Eyes still closed, she nonetheless offered an, "Indeed," filled with a not-insignificant amount of suppressed emotion.

A wiser man than he would've left T'Pol to her own devices while she attempted to control her emotions, but, having fallen in love with a Vulcan in the first place, Trip did not consider himself all that wise, and so persevered, "I take it your mother wasn't thrilled to see me."

"That might be understating the matter."

Trip whistled and joined her on the edge of the bed.

"However, I doubt it was your presence so much as the position she found us in that displeased her."

"You mean she saw-"

"Yes."

Groaning as he leaned back, "It's a curse, it has to be."

"Commander?" Then, at his half-hearted look, "Trip?"

"Every time I step foot on a new planet, something unpleasant has to happen, doesn't it?"

"Indeed."

* * *

Over the next several days, it became clear that T'Pol's mother – who, after much effort, he found was called T'Les – was not displeased to see him: disappointed was a better word for it. Though the pair of them endeavoured not to argue, at least, not where he could hear them, Trip could tell there was something going on beyond the normal mother-daughter spats that seemed to be a constant in the universe.

On the third day of their visit, however, a Vulcan man appeared at the door, and Trip suddenly got a good idea about what was really going on. Not bothering to listen in on their conversation (and already deciding that he was going to have to start learning Vulcan when they returned to _Enterprise_), Trip waited in the room they shared for her to return, knowing that, if his initial guess was correct, she'd want to meditate when it was over.

The room, he'd learned, had been T'Pol's when she was a child, but, because she had not been to Vulcan in nearly a decade, it had acquired an itinerant feel that even several days worth of use had yet to shake. He'd been surprised when T'Pol had told him how long it had been since she'd been home, though more so that she'd willingly shared this information than at the reminder that she was as old as his parents, however young she might actually look. She'd been doing that more often, sharing facts about her life, though she'd not tried to kiss him again since the day of their arrival, despite the fact they shared a bedroom. (Though that, he half-thought, was more to piss off T'Les than because T'Pol was entirely comfortable with the idea, and, because of that, he was actually grateful she hadn't tried anything. Trip loved her, but, if they were going to sleep together, he wanted it to be because she wanted it, not because she was trying to prove a point to her mother.) For instance, he'd learned that she'd not always been a science officer in the High Command, though she'd yet to be clear on what exactly it was she'd done beforehand, only that it had kept her off world, enough so that she'd barely spent more than a year at a time on Vulcan since her twenties.

Trip had given up examining the few personal items in the room and begun (with little success, he felt) to work on a warp engine manual that might actually be worth the memory it was stored in by the time T'Pol returned. She started when she saw him, so deeply was she lost in her thoughts, but rather than pull up one of the meditation mats stored in the corner as he'd expected, she began to pace the room with a furious energy, as if the idea of sitting still was anathema to her at the moment.

Something had happened to her in the Expanse to make it difficult to control her emotions even now, weeks after they'd destroyed the spheres, that was clear. Something more than her breif exposure to trelium aboard the _Seleya_, not that he thought she'd ever tell him what, no matter how close they might get. Trip hated to see her so... frazzled... especially when she was usually so in control... Still, he couldn't help but notice that he was the only one she let see her when she was like this, and that was something at least, and a petty part of him enjoyed this more than he should.

T'Pol had paced the length of the room three, four times before she suddenly stopped at the far end of it, grasping tightly at the edge of the dresser that stood there. "I have spoken to Koss."

It took him a moment to place the name. "The guy you were supposed to marry? I thought you called that off ages ago."

"As did I." She released her grip on the dresser and turned around, taking a few steps forward, her hands wringing, before she seemed to realize what she was doing and schooled herself to stillness. Only the agitated set of her lips and brow – things Trip had seen all-too-often for his liking in recent days – gave away that she was fuming inside. "However, our parents are insistent that the betrothal still stands."

Trip could feel his skin paling at her words, his body growing cold despite Vulcan's impossible heat. He could take being shot at and blown up. He could even understand the kidnappings and unintentional impregnations, be flattered by the seductions, and take in stride the ridiculous proportion of away-mission injuries he seemed to incur. But this? He'd only just gotten her to admit that there was something between them; just barely managed to convince her that it was worth exploring. After all the arguments, after all the false starts and misunderstandings, this was the point when they were supposed to find a way to make it work – because it _had _to work. There was just too much between them for this, all this, to _not _work_._ He had no illusions that it would be easy, but knew that it would happen nonetheless.

This was it. This was final, clinching proof that there was no god because, if there was a god, he wouldn't have been asked to come sixteen light years and expected to watch the woman he loved marry a man she barely knew. It was as simple as that.

He didn't think his heart had beaten at all in the impossible amount of time these thoughts had taken to run through his head.

His voice sounded far away when he managed to ask the question that was nagging most at him, begging for answer though fearing – knowing – he wouldn't like it, whatever it might be. T'Pol was Vulcan after all. She may love him (or feel as close to the emotion as a Vulcan could) and she may want to be with him (though, again, he hardly thought she was entirely clear on this matter herself), but there were some things she couldn't change. Try as she might, she was as bound by the traditions of her race as he was to his, and no amount of wishing could change the fact that that they were from two different worlds, with such different expectations of relationships that it had taken him ages to sort out that, just because they weren't doing the things that a human couple in their situation might, didn't mean that they weren't a couple nevertheless. She would, ultimately, have to marry this Koss guy, because love didn't come into the equation with Vulcan marriages, only familial duty. It was the Vulcan way. But still he had to ask, "What are you going to do?"

His heart, which had been silent, now thrummed in his ears as he waited for the answer, so loudly that he was sure her response had been lost to the noise. But, no; one thousand, two thousand beats later (or was it but a hundred? he could no longer tell), she still hadn't said a word, and he found himself scrambling to find something, anything he could say to make her understand he understood the choice he knew she had to make. But there were no words, nothing but the icy-sharp pain in his heart-

And then she spoke, her voice sounding even weaker than his, "I don't know."

* * *

a/n: This chappie was incredibly difficult to write, but, hopefully, this adresses some of the concerns those of you who reviewed had about things seeming a little too fast emotionally and slow plotwise. Thanks especially to Alelou, for putting up with me, and mentioning Chrissie's Transcripts site, which aided in the writing of this more than it really should've. And, as always, reveiws are appreciated.


	3. Home, Part Two: That Which Survives

Home

Part Two, That Which Survives

* * *

"You don't know? It's simple," he caught his voice rising and forced it down again, knowing yelling was only going to make things worse. If their past confrontations were anything to go by, there was a good chance she'd do the opposite of what he wanted just to be contrary if they got worked up enough over it. Seeing as how Trip most definitely did _not_ want her marrying this Koss guy and there was no way in hell he was going to be able to stay rational thinking about it, things were not looking good. He clutched the padd he held as tightly as he could and tried to be logical about this, like T'Pol would want. It wasn't easy – most of his thoughts seemed to be concentrated on the number of things he'd like to do to her would-be fiancé if he ever saw him again – but he managed, "Do you want to marry the guy or not?"

"It is not that simple."

"Then make it that simple!" Unable to keep calm, Trip forced himself to look away. He had to keep his cool. He couldn't act like a jealous boyfriend: she barely knew how to deal with the boyfriend part (if she even saw him as that, though God knew it was as good a term as any to describe whatever they were to each other); forcing her to deal with him when he got like this on top of everything her mom was putting her through would be unfair. He had to let her deal with this her way. No matter how much it tore him up inside.

"My wants are irrelevant." He studiously continued to look at the wall to his left, rather than at her. There was some sort of Vulcan artwork there, a lozenge-shaped plaque with what looked like a couple of the squiggly bronze pieces her people wore on their their robes pinned to it. Perhaps if he stared at it long enough, the feeling of betrayal would go away. Perhaps the shock would wear off and he'd be able to breathe again. Perhaps, if he tried hard enough, it would all turn out to be a dream. "No matter how distasteful I may find the union, there is little I can do to prevent it."

Clutching onto her use of the word "distasteful," Trip risked a glance in her direction and found her hands had begun their agitated dance once again. Could it be-? Did it mean-? He tried not to read anything into it – told himself that she had major commitment issues and probably would've baulked at the idea of any marriage – but he found himself able to breathe again. "Can't you just refuse to go through with it?"

"Were it that I could," her hands stilled, but T'Pol still seemed unable to completely suppress her emotions, her angry pacing restarting after no more than a moment of composure, "but there is, as I said, little I can do. This marriage was arranged by our parents when we were both young and witnessed by a priest. The only way it can be called off is if Koss were to choose another mate, and, in speaking with him, I believe that, even if such were his desire, his father would not allow such a thing to come to pass."

"And just why is Koss's dad so keen to see you two hitched anyway? I kinda got the impression that you weren't exactly the High Command's favourite Vulcan at the moment, what with going into the Expanse with us instead of coming back here last year. 'Cause, unless things have changed since we left, I can't exactly see how having his son marry Starfleet's first Vulcan officer helps Koss's father any."

"Koss's father is a man of great influence; even if my race were to find my posting honourable, it would do very little, politically, for their family. In all likelihood, this union would diminish his political standing and they would endeavour to keep me out of the public eye after the wedding until the scandal surrounding the destruction of the P'Jem Monastery and the resignation of my commission have died down."

Snorting, but still keeping his eyes firmly planted on the wall hanging, "Sounds awfully illogical to me."

"They desire this wedding take place for the sole reason that to do anything other would go against the old traditions, which would harm their family more." She gave what might've been a sigh, and the feeling in the room changed, the last of her anger quickly melting away into sad resignation. He still didn't turn (though, by god, it was growing harder with each passing moment), but could almost feel her weariness as she sank, slowly, onto the edge of the bed (the soft rustle of sheets giving this away; he hadn't looked, he swore he didn't, because he knew that looking would break whatever resolve he still had to let her do what she must, and, if that happened, well, it would be the end of all things). He imagined that, as she sat there, she was wrapping her arms around herself as she sometimes did when trying to make sense of emotions she neither understood nor desired. Had she been human, he would have gone to her and held her and told her they'd figure something out – but, then again, if she'd been human, this wouldn't be happening to them in the first place. "It is doubtful we could leave the planet before they discovered our intention. Which leaves-"

"Wait a second," his padd was crashing to the floor before he realized he was standing, "You'd be willing to do that?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I wasn't."

She was sitting there, exactly as he'd imagined, more composed now but still shaken. Part of him wondered if all Vulcans were like this, with thin veneers of logic over hotbeds of emotion, but he somehow doubted it. He'd met enough Vulcans to know most were so repressed they wouldn't know a real feeling if given a map and neon-lit instructions. But some... Some made him real glad Vulcans had learned to suppress their emotions. And others, like T'Pol, made him wish they hadn't, so that she'd've been able to deal with everything the universe seemed intent on throwing her way.

She hadn't had to stay. She could've left _Enterprise_ after a week and never had to deal with these pesky human feelings again. She could've gone off and married Koss when she was supposed to and not ever felt this pain. She could've left any of a dozen times, but she'd chosen to stay with them and was willing to leave behind everything again to do so. He wondered what it was about his species that fascinated her so – Trip wasn't naïve enough to believe she's stayed all this time for him, especially not when, in the early days of the mission when the Vulcans seemed to be ordering her off _Enterprise_ every other week, they'd been at each other's throats so often he was still surprised she'd never shown him to an airlock after he'd countermanded one of her orders – that she was willing to abandon the traditions that were so important to her for them. For him. _That_ said more about whatever she made of their relationship than she ever would.

He sat down next to her on the bed, exactly as he would have if she were human, though he made sure to sit apart enough that the Vulcan wouldn't feel crowded. She surprised him again, as she seemed intent on doing, by leaning her head against his shoulder. Trip brought an arm around her, to gather her closer, and she didn't complain, just kept her eyes closed and concentrated on her breathing, rather like she was meditating, though her breaths were far too erratic and shuddering for that. "You were saying something about a way that didn't involve hopping the next transport?"

"There is another option."

"And...?"

"I am reluctant to even mention it... There is a tradition which has its roots in the time before Surak, before logic allowed us control over the base emotions that would have destroyed us. We were a violent race, once; the destruction caused by your Third World War pales in comparison to the _Naehm T'Dashsaya – _the last the great wars, from which it took us nearly fifteen hundred years to rebuild... It is called the _kal-if-fee_, and is one of the few things that kept Vulcan males in the throws of _plak-tau _from seizing what they would have..."

"That's all well and good, T'Pol, but what _is_ this, um, _kal-e-_?"

"_Kal-if-fee_."

"Right. So what is it?"

"A challenge."

"And this challenge can get you out of marrying Koss?"

"If it is successful."

Becoming quite exasperated with her evasion, "So what's the problem? I'm not trying to tell you how you should live your life, T'Pol, but you obviously don't want to marry the guy. No matter how old this _kal_-_e_- er, challenge thing is, it's gotta be worth a shot. I mean, what d'you have to loose?"

* * *

"I'm proud of you, daughter."

T'Pol resisted the urge to scream. Though she had gotten better at controlling the wellspring of emotions she had unleashed with her trelium abuse, all of that hard-won control had, to borrow a human phrase, gone out the window when T'Cara, the daughter of her mother's cousin, arrived to help her prepare for the ceremony. She'd been dreading this day her whole life.

It was nothing against Koss, though recent developments had, obviously, made his companionship the less desirable alternative. His family was quite influential and could provide for her quite better than she or her mother could ever do on their respective salaries; in all respects, the match was quite fortuitous on her part, having been made before it had become clear that Koss's father would rise as far as he had in his ministry, made in large part even then because of the close acquaintance of their respective fathers. Koss had even – or T'Les had told her – secured a quite prestigious contract for something or other in Dahhanakahr and was becoming quite renowned in his profession outside of his father's influence. All things considered, he was a logical and agreeable mate.

No, it wasn't Koss that made the marriage disagreeable, it was the institution itself. While her parents' interests had always been focused on Vulcan, T'Pol had always been entranced by the stars, to the point where her itinerant nature had been commented upon by more than one commander. For nearly two decades, her home had been the small spacecraft she utilized in her work in prisoner retrieval for the Ministry of Security; in the seventeen years since transferring to the High Command, she'd served on no less than five vessels, not including _Enterprise_. She had often considered telling Captain Archer when he grew irritated at her cautious nature how several of her colleagues on Vulcan considered her desire for exploration quite reckless by her species' terms. Being required to return to Vulcan every seven years, as her mate's needs would demand, was highly disagreeable to her, and the idea of staying beyond that to raise the children she would, eventually, be expected to bear was even more stifling. Perhaps if her intended mate had shared her desire for something more than the ordinary, to borrow another human phrase, cookie-cutter life of adult Vulcans... But she had always known that the chances of finding any such alternative mate were so low it was illogical to even search, and so she hadn't.

Yet she'd still found Commander Tucker, with his illogical nickname and singular ability to attract trouble. She should have known from the start that he'd be nothing but trouble, the way he invaded her space like none of the other humans dared try; the way he sought out arguments even when their reason for debate was petty at best; the way he tried, persistently, to convince her that they could have a relationship even after she had told him that it was nothing but an experiment...

"What is there to be proud of Mother?"

T'Les reached up adjusted the fall of her wedding clothes, and, though she'd had physical contact with humans on a near daily basis since her posting aboard _Enterprise_, her mother's touch seemed more awkward and unwanted than any of the accidental brushes that sometimes happened with new crewmen, who stepped back as if they were burned when they realized what had happened... "I believe this is the first time since you were a child that you've behaved logically about this union."

Schooling herself to calmness, "There is little logic in fighting what cannot be prevented."

"Yet you sought to evade this marriage for the better part of three years and have debated its validity quite strenuously since returning home. May I ask what it was that precipitated this change of heart?"

"I believe I explained my reasons quite satisfactorily to you yesterday, when I told you I would go through with the _koon-ut-kal-if-fee._"

"You merely stated that you no longer saw the logic in fighting the wedding."

"As I said, I explained my reasoning."

"Such may pass for logic with the humans you serve with, but will not fool me, child." T'Les stood beside her now, her control so enviable that T'Cara, who was waiting by the door, did not appear to notice that her clanswomen were having a disagreement. Such was the way with Vulcan arguments and, in a way she had distinctly never thought before joining _Enterprise_, T'Pol wondered what her mother would say if she ever came across her and Trip in one of their famous rows. Quickly, however, she put that thought out of mind; she'd need all her control to make it through the ceremony. "It is because of this Commander Tucker, isn't it? Tell me, was it you or he who finally realized that a human and a Vulcan could not have a future together? That your children would be shamed beyond recounting – assuming the two of you could ever have children?"

"I fail to see how the matter concerns you. I have agreed to this wedding for your sake; you will be reinstated at the Academy when it is through. How I arrived at my decision is irrelevant."

"I fail to see how it is irrelevant when you and he have been sharing a bed ever since you arrived."

"My sleeping habits are none of your concern."

"You've changed. Your emotions were always close to the surface, but you've always been able to suppress them. Now it appears you no longer even try. You were always an impetuous child. My only hope that you will outgrow these... disagreeable... tendencies before you must reside with Koss-"

T'Pol had never before so glad to hear the ceremonial gong.

"Where is your human colleague? It is nearly time."

If her mother had been looking, she would have seen a brief flash of relief cross her face. T'Les wasn't, however, and so saw nothing other than the forced stoicism she expected as she stepped forward in readiness for the second striking of the gong. "He will not be attending the ceremony."

"An agreeable solution. I had feared he would do something untowards."

The gong rang out a second time, and, not dignifying her mother's words with a response, T'Pol headed into the courtyard, still trying not to scream.

* * *

She knelt in front of Koss, heart beating as it never had, forced to count her breaths to keep them coming in the calm and steady manner she had learned as a child.

The priest was elderly, a man of no little standing in the community. His presence was surely the doing of Koss's father, who, in his rush to see the marriage finally completed, could not leave his duties at the ministry to view it. "What ye are about to witness," he began without further ceremony, "comes down from the time of the beginning without change. This is the Vulcan heart. This is the Vulcan soul. This is our way." He spoke the next words, "_Kah-if-farr_," quickly after, and was halfway through the next phrase before she'd a chance to give her response, "_Kal-if-fee"_ - quickly enough that she could not, at first, be sure she said the words, and a wave of panic washed over her stomach and flooded her chest before she noticed the silence that had fallen. The fear resided, but only enough that she could still pretend to be calm. It was lucky that she had become quite practised in doing such, otherwise she might not ever have managed it.

Her fiancé and the priest (and everyone else for that matter) looked at her askance. It was her right, but it was a little exercised one in modern days. Koss stood and, calmly looking around for the one who would be her challenger, asked, "Is this what you really want? A fight to the death? Surely whatever affection you have for your human friend will tell you that-"

"Commander Tucker will not be my challenger."

Sounding like a man who has just woken, the priest, apparently unused to this response, searched for the ceremonial words. "It is her right. T'Pol, thee has chosen the _kal-if-fee_. Who would thee have as your champion?"

"I will fight the challenge myself."

"Is that even legal?" asked one of Koss's younger male cousins, many of his kinsmen's expressions showing similar surprise.

"It is highly unusual, but she may choose her own defender, even herself, if it is what she wishes."

"As it was in the dawn of our days, as it is today, as it will be for all tomorrows, I make my choice. I will defend myself. It is the only logical course of action." She began to remove her outer robe.

"I fail to see the logic, T'Pol. If you are victor, I will be dead and you will have no mate. If I am victor, you will be dead and I will have no mate. Neither outcome will lead to a wedding."

"I have no intention of marriage this day. I also have little desire for your death, but, of all possible outcomes, it is the preferred."

"Your loss," he reminded her, "would result in your death."

"I received my training at the Ministry of Security. You are an architect. Such an outcome is unlikely, but still preferable this union." It had been many years since she had utilized much of that training, but her death was still a possibility. She had not mentioned this part to Trip when explaining the challenge to him and hoped that he had remained inside, as she had asked, so that, if this were to happen, he would not be injured trying to prevent it. But her back was to the house now and Trip's history of following instruction where she was concerned was shaky at best. She could only hope that it the challenge will not come to a point where it was necessary for her find out.

Koss had still yet to remove his outer robe. For some reason, this caused the fear to rise again, and she could feel her control starting to fracture. "You would risk your own death to prevent our union?"

No longer trusting herself to speak, she only nodded.

"Then I release you, T'Pol."

If he said any more – if her mother or any of the guests said anything more, - she did not hear them, all sounds seeming to disappear as she turned away, pausing only to acknowledge his release with another nod as she moved, her vision tunnelling, back towards her mother's house. Those around her appeared to move too quickly as to be natural, or perhaps it was only her own movements that felt preternaturally slow, but at great length she found her way inside and, impossibly longer, to her childhood room, where Trip was waiting.

He was positively shaking with nervous energy, both feet taping against the floor as he sat at the desk, stabbing viciously at the padd before him. He nearly fell out of his chair at her approach, his eyes darting, searching for blood or other signs of injury as he stood. "Well? Did it work?"

Swallowing compulsively, she found she could once more only nod as a different emotion – relief – coursed through her. "It's over. I am free."

* * *

a/n: well, ta da. If any of you thought _that_ was going to happen, I want to know about it. Frankly, when I got the idea this morning, it gave me the most embaressing fit of giggles ever, don't ask me why. Chrissie's transcripts helped with ENT "Home," TOS "Amok Time," and VOY "Blood Fever" for this one - take a look at each if you want to know why.

Real life is going to catch up to me again tomorrow, well, techincally today, so it may be a few days before I can get the next chappie out. Until then, please reveiw. It might make the wait shorter.

(Ps, "Family Business" is the title of a third-season DS9 episode; "That Which Survives" is a third season TOS).


	4. Borderland

Borderland

* * *

"I just heard the most interesting thing."

"Cap'n?" Trip looked up over the display panel (blinking furiously with at least three different coloured lights, telling him that no less than twelve messages required his immediate attention – if he could find them in the sea of nondescript subject lines in his in-box – and three reports at last count needed his sign-off before the repairs they referred to could be officially declared complete) in what counted as his office, surprised to find Archer standing there, seemingly unperturbed by the crewmen working frantically around them.

"Hoshi was doing a comm check and heard the strangest rumour from the comm officer at Orbital Platform One."

Turning his attention back to the computer (picking a message at random, opening it, and forwarding it to Rostov to take care of) and forcing down an irrational burst of anger at this news, "We're shipping out in less than four hours with to go after a dozen Augments left over from the Eugenics Wars flying around the Borderland in a stolen Klingon bird of prey and you want to talk about some piece of gossip you overheard?"

"When you put it like that... yes."

Deleting another message, this one trying to sell him some sort of new wonder pharmaceutical for a disease he was certain he didn't have, "And you want to talk about it now?"

"It seems," the captain said with a smirk, moving from behind Trip's workbench_-cum_-desk to perch on the one corner of it not laden with padds and pieces of diagnostic equipment, "that our Science Officer didn't go to Vulcan alone for her leave."

"Is that so?" he said, failing rather poorly at sounding disinterested, as he replied to a third message, this one containing one of the reports he was looking for; granted, modifications to the hydroponics bays weren't the highest items on his list right now, but at least it was one less thing cluttering the server.

"It also seems," he said, leaning in closer, "that the weekly transport from Vulcan didn't have her scheduled to return until next Monday, and that she and her guest hitched a ride back with a courier attached to Earth's embassy there ten days early. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"Me, sir?" setting aside a fourth message for a polite refusal, to be written later, to the girl he'd had a crush on junior year's invitation to drinks, he felt a wide smile worm its way on the innocent expression he'd been carefully cultivating through the conversation, "Why would you think I'd know anything about that?"

"Just a hunch. Captain's Mess, 1930?"

* * *

Trip was in recalibrating a power monitoring system inside a Jeffreys Tube somewhere between decks D and E when he heard footfalls coming up the access shaft behind him. "Bryon?" he called out, thinking it was the crewman he'd sent an hour before back to Engineering to retool a part of the converter matrix. "You done already? Thought it would take another hour at least to get all that done. I know your shift ends in an hour," he pulled himself out of the panel he was half-inside, pausing only to pick up an innocuous looking box from the mess of wires surrounding him, "but do you think you could finish this..." his voice trailed off as the crewman came into view. "You're not Crewman Tyler."

"An astute observation, Mr. Tucker," T'Pol said, stepping off the ladder and managing not to look like an overgrown kid as she crawled down the shaft to join him. "I ordered Crewman Tyler to the mess hall twenty-six minutes ago."

"Why would you go and do a thing like that?"

"I discovered when Captain Archer required as to your location after you missed the dinner he-"

"Dinner? Missed? I know I've been up here working for a while, but it can't be later than 1600-"

"The time is 2149."

Rubbing a hand over his eyes (or, rather, starting to, as he quickly found them to be covered in machine lubricant, and rubbed them on his already stained jumpsuit instead), "When did that happen?"

"Approximately forty-three seconds ago. As I was saying, when you failed to show up for the meal, the captain requested my presence in-"

"I'd no idea it'd gotten so late. You really loose track of time in these things. How mad was Jon? I wasn't planning on skipping out on him like that, but-" Trip stopped himself and held up his (now less dirty) hands at the Vulcan's slightly-less-than-amused quirk of her eyebrow. "Sorry." Now that she mentioned it in fact, he was exhausted. And starving. God, as annoyed as he was with Jon at the moment, he really wished he hadn't missed dinner – Jon's 0500 senior staff meeting had distinctly ruined his breakfast plans and, trying to prepare to launch while cleaning up after the boys at Jupiter Station, he'd worked straight through lunch.

"As I was saying, the captain asked me to dine with him instead. He seemed..."

"Agitated?" Trip offered with a grin, knowing well that, for T'Pol, 'agitated' could mean anything from mildly anxious to on the verge of court marshal.

"Amused, actually. He also seemed very curious as to my visit to Vulcan."

"Yeah, he was harping me about that earlier."

"Would this have anything to do with why both Crewman Tyler and yourself cannot be identified on internal sensors?"

"He was _really_ starting to bug me." The words came out tangled, with too much force, and Trip angrily started to jamb the circuits he'd disconnected back into place, keeping the auxiliaries running for the moment but not wanting the wires to be free to move about if _Enterprise_ came under attack. "I mean, who really cares if we took our leaves together?"

"I thought Captain Archer was your friend."

"He is." Which was the problem. They'd been friends since the Warp Two Project, almost thirteen years now. Trip had been a newly minted lieutenant than and Jon, well, Jon was the son of the guy who'd created the engine that had become his whole life. God, he'd just been twenty-two then, fresh out of college and looking it, enough so that the higher ups who'd gotten bent out of shape originally when Jeffreys had originally assigned him to the project – and, god again, he'd been straight out of high school then, working sixty-hour weeks at the Warp Five Complex and taking twenty-plus hours of classes at a time because Jeffreys had read a paper he'd submitted senior year to one of the engineering journals and pulled him out of English class two months before graduation with an offer of a commission and a posting if he'd enlist in Starfleet – and his life had _become_ the engine. If Jon hadn't taken it upon himself to drag him from the project...

In those thirteen years, they'd shared everything, been closer than brothers. Hell, with his parents – Mom in particular – _still_ peeved that he'd been too busy in boot camp to attend his graduation ceremony, nevermind his school had already given him the paper that was the important part of the shindig, Jon had been closer to Trip than his actual family. Baring Lizzie, of course, but his parents still didn't need to know that half the time she said she was going over to a girlfriend's for the weekend she'd been really hopping transports to see him.

"From our many discussions on the matter," T'Pol continued, unaware of his discomfort – or, if aware, unclear on the reason why, "I was under the impression that friends shared such intimate information."

"You _want_ me to talk to Jon about us?" _That_ was certainly out of left field. T'Pol had not said anything – not that she would've – but Trip had assumed that, since Vulcans didn't broadcast their personal lives, she would want to keep everything hush-hush. And there were always the fraternization rules to remember now that she was, officially, Starfleet...

God, was _that_ he her new uniform? Their paths hadn't had a reason to cross since the meeting, and she'd not brought them back to the rooms (with connecting doors) they'd found south of San Francisco after being forced to return early from their visit, probably because she knew he'd've snuck a look at them. How had she gotten them to agree to _this – _or had Starfleet come to its senses and decided that expecting a group of young adults in high stress situations to remain as chaste as monks for during extended missions into deep space was a fantasy at best and nobody had bothered to inform him?

The tilt of her eyebrow told him she'd caught onto his train of thought and wanted him to get off at the next station, "I am merely pointing out an unusual derivation in behaviour on your part, one which the Captain appears to be concerned about."

"Well, he picked a hell of a time to start wanting to be friendly again."

"Perhaps he is attempting to make up for past mistakes. The Expanse was hard on every member of the crew, and many of the actions the captain felt forced to take do not sit well with him even now. It is my understanding that he allowed his emotions to control his actions at one of his initial meetings with Admiral Forest, requiring the debriefings be postponed for several days."

Pausing as he put the last of the tools in their cases, concerned surprise momentarily over-road his pique, "Jon told you that?"

"The captain, as I said, seemed unduly concerned with my leave and offered few details on his own. No, I received this information from Ambassador Soval."

"Soval? Don't tell me he's calling for your arrest now too?"

"Quite the contrary, the Ambassador merely wished to share his concern about the captain's mental state, although he did mention that he'd received reports from Vulcan on my activities there and found them to be quite... intriguing..."

"If you say so..." Trip sighed and reached for the panel that covered the junction box he had been working on. Once he was sure it was firmly secured, he followed after T'Pol, who'd already moved to the access ladder. "You're right about Jon, though – and, yes, I know, you're always right. It's just the _way_ he was going on about it... like we're all back in high school and everyone's spending more time talking about who's going with who than paying attention to what the teacher's saying." The very memory was enough to send shards of ice through his veins.

"Perhaps you should tell the captain that."

"Maybe... Anyone besides Crewman Tyler know you came up here looking for me?" T'Pol nodded as she descended the ladder the few short rungs to the access hatch that would return them to E Deck, causing him to groan. "We better hurry up and get out of here before words spreads that we've been necking in the Jeffreys Tubes or something even worse – er, I'll explain later. Breakfast, 0700?"

* * *

Thirty-seven minutes later, free of most of the various engineering fluids that had managed to find their way onto his body and bearing a peace offering, Trip was pressing the buzzer to the captain's quarters. As Trip had expected, Jon was far from asleep when he called for him to come in.

Closing the door behind him, he proffered the bottle and announced, "I took a swing at the senior assistant something-or-other of the subminister of the Vulcan Ministry of Security."

"What?"

"I hit one of the subminister's flunkies, and that's all you're getting out of me until you can scrounge up some glasses. I know it's not the usual, but the hotel was near Tijuana and it was a lot easier to find good tequila than a decent bottle of bourbon."

Jon had paused the game by this point, but, with a look that Trip had seen many different times with many different bottles over many different girls, turned it off as he pulled a pair of glasses from the drawer. "I might not be humanity's biggest fan of Vulcans, but I've never taken a swing at one."

"It's kinda a long story."

"Travis says we won't hit the Trialus system until the day after tomorrow."

Opening the bottle as he sank into the proffered chair, Trip warred with himself. It was nice – familiar – to be here, talking – or intending to talk – with Jon. But they'd all changed in the Expanse. Jon had become distant, obsessive to the point of psychosis with the mission. T'Pol had lost the last vestiges of the stick-in-the-mud Vulcan persona she'd worn and lost herself for a while in the process. And Trip? God, he'd been so angry and alone and betrayed that his emotions had begun to flow from him, to proceed him like a cloud that silenced passing crewmen and changed the feel of entire rooms until it all had bled out, leaving him dry as a bone and unable to feel anything – not grief, not anger; not even a general sense of anticipation that they were going to find those sons of bitches who were so grossly stupid that they thought that they could just attack Earth like humans _weren't_ the guys trying to keep the fucking peace in the quadrant, and that they were going to make God-damn sure that they never killed another innocent again – other than the tiredness that pervaded his body and come to be his very existence. He had been consumed with his work before, to the exclusion of everything else, but never before had Trip been so consumed that the only thing keeping him going had been the still-burning wreckage of his life. She'd been his baby sister, who'd loved him no matter what...

Now there was something cold in Jon, an almost palatable sense of the distance he'd put between himself and the rest of the crew because he didn't want to know their faces when he sent them inevitably (or so he seemed to feel) to their deaths. And Trip himself, T'Pol had helped him so much, just by being there, by reminding him that being human was to feel, that sometimes he wondered what he must look like to others, if they could recognize him as the same easy-going, perpetually-imperilled – and naïve – person he'd been at the start of the mission, when he'd honestly thought the armoury would be the last place he'd be spending any amount time. He felt so old now, so impossibly old...

Was it possible for two people, who'd drifted so far apart, to find each other again? He didn't want to loose this friendship, which had weathered so much, but he didn't even know if it was possible to salvage it any more. Not after all the battles. Not after so many eulogies.

T'Pol was right, though: Jon was his friend. That alone made it worth the try. At worst, dinners in the Captain's Mess would just get a whole lot more uncomfortable. At best...

With a laugh that wasn't entirely forced, "It probably won't take _that_ long."

"So...?"

"So... you know way back when we first got out here, T'Pol got that encrypted message she didn't tell us about?"

"Dimly... Wait, you saying this," Archer made a vague gesture towards Trip and the far bulkhead, in the general direction of the first officer's quarters with his glass before taking a drink, "has been going on for that long without me noticing. I know I can be a bit dense when it comes to these things," (Trip could call one highly illuminating instance of this in particular, from the first months of their friendship, when he'd seen Jon quite actively pursue a civilian who worked in the office, a girl who had to be younger than Trip was at the time. It'd taken the captain nearly three weeks to realize that, not only was the guy who dropped her off every morning distinctly _not_ her brother, but that she'd announced her engagement while they'd been gone on some sort of training he couldn't even remember the purpose of any more), "but I'm not that blind."

"No, not that long, though I won't deny that's when things started to change between us."

"You mean I had to stop worrying whether or not to assign a security detail every time you two had to work together."

"Very funny, Cap'n."

"You're supposed to be telling me how you ended up attacking a member of the Vulcan Security Directorate, not criticizing my jokes."

"I only hit him _once_ – and he more than deserved it."

"In order, Commander."

"All right... So, that message we got Hoshi to decrypt? It was a letter from her fiancé's parents-"

Choking for a minute on his drink, "T'Pol? Engaged? I can't see it."

"Neither could I. Turns out marriages on Vulcan are arranged when they're like seven or eight years old. She'd only met Koss – that's the guy her parents wanted her to marry – like twice. Anyway, Koss's parents wanted her to leave _Enterprise_ and get married like she was supposed to, but she wouldn't, so she told them she was staying here and assumed the whole thing was called off.

"Fast forward to a couple weeks ago, and we get to Vulcan-"

"And and what point in all of this do the two of you...?"

Trip felt his checks start to warm; he hoped it was just the tequila, 'cause god knew Jon would pry mercilessly if he looked like he'd anything potentially embarrassing to share. "Er, sometime in the Expanse, I guess. We were dancing around each other for ages..." and that had got them to actually talk to each other without it having to be an argument for two, three days at a time, which allowed him to discover that at some point he'd stopped thinking of her as a unusually attractive example of aliens-who-are-determined-to-interfere-with-_Enterprise_-(and-him-in-particular) and that _she_ had somehow come to realize that, while he could be highly emotional, illogical, and impulsive, he didn't always act on those thoughts... And then, once he stopped expecting her to think like a human and she'd stopped expecting him to act like a Vulcan... "It didn't click, though, 'til we all thought you'd been killed on the Xindi weapon. Can't tell you I know what went through T'Pol's head, but I think it was the Vulcan equivalent of realizing we were a lot happier when we were together than when we were apart...

"Anyway, I got her to take me to Vulcan with her, and we get there and her mom-"

"You met her parents?"

"Just her mom. She _hates_ me."

"I think it's one of the universal rules that mothers have to hate the guys their daughters date."

"It's more like T'Les – that's her mom – had decided that T'Pol was finally going to get married while she was home, and I was an unfortunate glitch in the wedding plans."

"And her dad?"

"Dead, as far as I can tell. Either that or he skipped out on them some time ago, but I can't see a Vulcan doing that, so... Anyway, T'Les and Koss's parents forced her to go through with the wedding-"

The look on Jon's face was camera-worthy. "She got married?"

"Nearly. Got Koss to let her out of it. She won't tell me the details and refused to let me watch, but, from what I got out of her, she called some kind of challenge and scandalized everyone doing it.

"So, anyway, after the wedding, her mom was going on about how T'Pol shamed the clan – again, what I got from T'Pol in translation, which is probably far from the whole thing, but you can guess – and how Koss's family could've protected her. After about two days of this, T'Pol finally asks what the hell she's supposed to need protecting from, and, as it turns out, T'Les is a member of some sort of Vulcan splinter-group that follows a different version of Surak's teachings that the High Command just happens to consider terrorists."

Disbelievingly, "Vulcan terrorists?"

"I know, right?" Trip snorted and refilled their glasses, "If you never meet T'Pol's mom, just believe me when I say Hoshi would make a more dangerous terrorist than T'Les would."

Now outright laughing, "I dunno. Y'know what they say: it's always the quiet ones you've gotta watch out for."

"Is that so, sir?" He paused a moment, quickly decided it would be worth it just to see Jon's reaction (and to get back at him for some of the distress he'd caused him, however unknowingly), and asked as innocently as possible, "Is that your professional opinion, or...?"

The captain surprised him. "If I was ten years younger..." Trip could only grin at him. Hoshi and Jon... now _there_ was a thought. A stupid, impossible thought as Jon would never, ever date anyone in his command and would probably be too pig-headed to ever ask anyone who'd ever been under him if one or the other ever got transferred, but it was an idea. Hoshi was certainly nothing like the girls Jon usually went for, but who was he to judge? Just the idea, though, of Hoshi's face if she ever found out... "but don't think you can get out of it so easily. I take it that the Security Directorate came into it at this point?"

"More or less," he couldn't stop smiling though, not that the tried to hard. It felt good to be happy. Very little did that any more. "After T'Les spilled the beans, she and T'Pol actually managed to get along for a while; seems like some of the points T'Les made hit home with T'Pol, and her mom only wanted her to get married so badly in the first place 'cause Koss's dad is some sort of Vulcan bigwig and would've been able to keep T'Pol out of things if T'Les was ever outed.

"'Course, though, T'Pol managed to ruffle a few feathers with the way she got out of the wedding 'cause 'bout a week later Koss shows back up at the house – I think he really liked T'Pol, enough so that he wouldn't marry her when he realized how badly she didn't want to marry him – and says that he heard from his father that the Security Directorate will be coming any day now to arrest her mom on some trumped-up charge. So between the three of us we manage to get T'Les to people who can smuggle her to safety somewhere in one of Vulcan's deserts before they can take her away.

"Once her mom's out of the way, T'Pol decides it might be a good idea to head back to Earth early, so we pack up and head to the Earth Embassy to arrange things, only before we've been there long, one the subministers of the Security Directorate shows up and tries to take T'Pol away for questioning."

"And that's when you hit the guy's assistant?"

"God, no. Wanted to, but we were in the middle of one of the main halls on the bottom level, where there are tonnes of people – human and Vulcan – so when T'Pol told them that she wouldn't go with them, made quite a scene."

"I can imagine. For people who think logic is the be all, end all, they certainly have a flair for the dramatic. What the Vulcans do?"

"They told her that she had no choice: she was a Vulcan citizen and had to abide by their rules. So she snapped back at them that she was a Starfleet officer, and they had no authority over her – and bear in mind this is all going on in English, so everyone can understand what's being said. Then the Subminister – V'Nar, or Valnir, or something like that – says something about how, while she can retire from the service, she couldn't ever leave it, so she _still _had to come with them. So T'Pol turns to the highest ranking diplomat that's stopped to watch all this and says she wants political asylum-"

Jon's face went from a friend's amusement to a captain's concern in the blink of an eye. "Why hasn't anyone told me about this? I've T'Pol's been caught up in the midst of some sort of interplanetary-"

Something burst in Trip's chest then – a tangle of anger and frustration, hot and prickly, climbing into the space between his lungs and ready to destroy all it latched onto. If it was something to worry about, wouldn't Jon think that _he_'d be worried about it? After all, he was only T'Pol's _boyfriend _(or the Vulcan equivalent). But, no, Jon always had to think that he knew better than everyone else – that he had more stake in the outcome of-

He tried to remember that Jon his friend was also Jon his captain, and it _was_ the captain's job to be concerned for his crew. He tried to remember that Jon's genuine concern for everyone he met was one of the reasons why Trip liked him so much – why everyone liked him so much. He made friends fast and enemies hard. He was, simply put, a diplomat. Maybe rough around the edges, and maybe he didn't forgive easily as a true diplomat should, but he was a good man. It was wrong to be angry at him for that.

It was just so _easy_ to get angry at everyone since the Xindi attack, where everything could be going fine until the slightest thing cause him to fly into a rage, unable to think clearly until the damage was done and there was nothing he could do to repair, let alone explain, the problems he'd caused. It used to be so hard for him to get angry – T'Pol had been the only one in a long time to get him angry enough that he could no longer see straight – and now the only one he could behave normally around was T'Pol, everyone else unwitting victims in the emotional storm Lizzie's death had unleashed. He didn't fool himself by saying he was no longer broken. If he lost himself in his work, if he gave into the feelings of love and life and hope T'Pol inspired, he could make it through the day. Sometimes, he didn't even need to pretend. But the anger remained, coming out at the worst possible times, and it was all he could do to force himself back together then. He-

He didn't want to be that person. He wanted to be the young, light-hearted – naïve – Trip that had thought he'd never have to hold a weapon again after that first away mission on Rigel. That Trip could sleep through the night. He probably wouldn't've punched a member of the Vulcan Security Directorate in the face either.

"She's fine, Jon," he said with a strained sigh. "You'll have to ask her for the details, but I don't think the brass wants anyone to know about it who doesn't know already. It makes good PR for her to be the first Vulcan in Starfleet-"

"-but all the PR turns against us if people find out she's requesting asylum from her own people. I got you. Sorry about that. Been biting the heads off of everyone I come across since we got back."

"I heard."

Jon's hard look slowly faded as he downed his refilled glass. "I don't want to talk about the Expanse. I don't want to _think_ about the Expanse. All I want to do is talk about something normal for once – if you call anything about you and T'Pol's relationship normal."

"Oh, I dunno. Arranged marriages, false arrests, late night declarations of love in the bowels of a former-enemy's ship – that sort of stuff happens all the time."

"I'm sure it does – to you. None of your relationships could ever actually be called normal."

"And yours can?"

"I'm not the one dating a rogue Vulcan."

Snorting. "'Rouge' – T'Pol would love that one."

"You still haven't-"

"She'd also say something about patience-"

"Trip..."

"Fine then. Anyway, T'Pol asks for asylum, which causes Subminister What's-His-Face to practically blow a gasket, but luckily the guy she asked it of was smart enough to take us straight to Ambassador Lefebvres. Of course, when we got there, the Vulcans wouldn't say anything on why they wanted to question T'Pol – don't want Earth knowing they're having their own domestic troubles, – so it sounds to the Ambassador that they want to lock her up for no reason, so of course they say T'Pol's under Earth's protection until the matter can be properly sorted out.

"Which is when one of the Subminister's flunkies says in that tone of voice they use when talking to us when they're really disgusted with us - the one where it's obvious they've more respect for the stuff the scrape off the bottoms of those fancy boots of theirs, - that the whole discussion is pointless because Earth always awards citizenships to it's national's spouses."

"So you clocked the guy? Just 'cause he called T'Pol your 'spouse'? That's one hell of a way to try to keep things between the two of you quiet. Her commission didn't officially go into effect until today – or is it yesterday now? Anyway, there was nothing Starfleet could have done had they found out."

"_No," _Trip said with much restraint, "I punched the guy _next_ to him who said, 'That may be true of their mates, but not for their whores.'" The memory made his blood boil. He poured himself another drink, focusing on keeping his hand steady instead before downing it and repeating the process a second time.

"Oh my... Where does a _Vulcan_ learn a word like _that_? I don't think it's one they put in the cultural databases."

"I didn't stop to ask. Needless to say, the Ambassador decided it would be a good idea to get us the hell out of Dodge after that, thus the lift their courier gave us. The guy was awful company, but at least his ship was fast. Found some rooms near Tijuana, and reported here at oh-dark-thirty for your staff meeting this morning. And _that_ was my vacation."

* * *

a/n: I don't know if this was what any of you were expecting (it's hard to tell, most of you being so silent), but this is what happened after a re-watch of the augments arc, a couple dozen perusals of the transcripts on Chrissie's site, and the discovery of the forums at Tralaxian Silk. Wanted to start introducing the Syrannite angle a little early, and the idea of Trip telling Jon about a fight he got into with a Vulcan gripped me and wouldn't let go... So, lovfe it, hate it, think I should give up the ghost or be crowned tsar of all things fan fiction, do let me know. It makes these things easier.


	5. Cold Station Twelve

Cold Station Twelve

* * *

She found being a slave – even if for only a few hours – highly disagreeable.

At the time, she'd been able to ignore the implications. Though far from a certainty, she had believed _Enterprise_ would, inevitably, rescue her and the others of the crew who had been taken. She had been trained to tolerate unpleasant situations and had felt, if she allowed herself to slip back into the training she'd received during her years in the Security Directorate, that she would be able to survive the situation, no matter how distasteful.

It wasn't until she was back on _Enterprise_, the neural restraint removed and the ringing in her ear having been replaced by a tingle down one side she could only hope would prove temporary, that the fear had truly begun to set in. Slavery was helplessness, abuse, and death. It was no longer her fate – had never been – but the idea that it almost was...

The ache in her side proved significantly distracting enough that it wasn't until she'd finally given up her attempts at meditation that T'Pol thought to wonder why she'd found slavery less distressful than she had the actions of her own government days earlier, when Subminister V'Lor had attempted to remove her from the Earth Embassy on Vulcan. Granted, such an extreme action by her government was far more uncharacteristic than kidnappings by the Orion Syndicate were and, therefore, a greater source of anxiety, but that was not enough to explain the discrepancy in her actions. She had acted logically in both situations – by seeking asylum from Earth when it became obvious that V'Lor would not leave without her in the former, and by trying to ascertain the locations of other captive crewmembers while awaiting rescue in the later – but T'Pol still felt as though she was missing something fundamental about the underlying cause of her reactions. The only difference she could find between the two was her companion in each and his reaction: the ensign she'd shared a cage with had been concerned primarily for his own safety, whereas Trip had, at the embassy, been more concerned for her well-being than his own, as was evident when he'd struck Subaltern Sopel. Such compassion was highly illogical, even for one's mate, when the threat was relatively minor.

Unable to calm her thoughts through meditation, T'Pol found herself laying on the bunk in her unlit cabin, wide awake despite the hour and unable to rest despite the stresses of the day. She was not unused to a certain restlessness of thought, a certain desire for something which she could neither name nor describe that would pervade her consciousness from time to time, but the restlessness had never come as often as it had since she'd joined _Enterprise_. Often times she'd find herself thinking on her recent disillusionment with Vulcan society or the alien tendencies of her human colleges; today, however, she was remembering something which her father had told her half a century before:

_Logic shows us the path, but it is compassion which guides the way. _

She did not know why she was remembering this now, excepting as a means to understand Trip's behaviour that day and, therefore, her own. She had achieved little in this regard when her door chimed.

"Enter."

From her position, T'Pol could not see her visitor until he was already the room. She'd anticipated his coming, though, and did not rise from the bed like she would have for any other. Instead, she merely shifted to better face him when Trip did come into view, saying, "Sorry. Didn't realize you were asleep. I'll-"

"Not at all. I was merely... thinking."

"Guess I don't have to ask you 'bout what." For a moment, the engineer looked like he would still go, but, after a look she could not describe, Trip took the only other seat in the room, turning it about to straddle it rather than sitting in its maker had intended. Why many human males – and not a few females – felt the need to do this was a matter for another night. All she knew was that he was here and, whatever the reason, that was better than the alternative. "How you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected considering recent events."

He gave strange half-smile, as if this comment amused him somehow, despite its grim nature. "The three who were taken from Engineering are in such a state that Phlox has them all on medical leave for the rest the week. Ensign Coates is even being sedated." He paused expectantly. Then, "This is the part where you tell me that Vulcans don't have panic attacks. Or," with more dark mirth, "sedation."

"There are certain medical procedures on Vulcan for which anaesthesia is required."

Trip's smile became more pronounced, even in the dim (to Vulcan eyes, at least) night lighting of her cabin. "I'm sure there are..." then lessened. "I just wish we could run into only one hostile race at a time, you know? It's not enough we have to be going after genetically-altered members of our own species-"

"Your own species," T'Pol reminded, adjusting the position of the hand that propped her up.

"-genetically-altered members of everyone-on-this-ship-(minus-you-and-Phlox)'s species, but we have to run into these Orions – who want to sell us into slavery-"

"Orions traffic in enforced labour; certain factions of the Syndicate have been known to obtain their stock in less than salutary ways. I should have remembered this-

"Remember? You've been to this Borderland before?"

"Yes, as have you."

"When?"

"Our original mission to return the Klingon courier Klaang to Kronos required us to pass through the Borderlands."

"I don't remember _anyone_ saying _anything_ about green-skined aliens that wanted to kidnap our people and sell them as slaves when we launched. Some worries about all the bolts flying loose when we hit warp five, but _nothing_ about transporter-wielding slavers."

"Their usual methods for capturing labour are boarding parties, not transporting off select crewmen from passing ships – a highly inefficient practice, I would believe."

"Inefficient or not," he allowed with a shake of his head, "them taking as many as they did caused enough problems. Engineering's under-billeted as it is; loosing three of my first-shift team doesn't help things any."

"Commander-"

"Back to that, now are we?"

T'Pol didn't dignify him with a response, instead sighing and, giving up the pretence of being anything other than exhausted and sore, slowly shifted on the bed until she was lying down again, this time on her side. "It is my understanding that it is the nature of chief engineers to feel that their departments are perpetually understaffed, no matter how many crewmen may be assigned to them."

"Must be something to it then."

"If this is an attempt to illicit my assistance in Engineering, Commander-"

"Look," he said, sounding tired himself, "I didn't come here to bother you about work or the Orions. I was just worried about you. I don't know about Vulcans, but if a human were to have the past few weeks you've been having..."

"It has been... disagreeable," she admitted, his concern illogically reducing the distress that, with tempestuous arms, was uncurling itself from the carefully guarded cage it shared with the rest of her miscomprehended emotions and waiting for the moment her control slipped so as to inundate her... T'Pol closed her eyes and fought to strengthen that control; once again she cursed herself for her weakness in the Expanse, for the trellium and the pa'nar before than, and wondered if there was something about humans that inspired a certain madness in anyone who spent too much time near them.

"Anything I can do?"

"Do?"

"To help." Seeing that she required more clarification, "You know, to make it less 'disagreeable'." A flutter of movement, and Trip was standing, pushing the chair out of the way and moving to stand next to her bunk. His physical closeness was... disconcerting. "I know Vulcans like to deal with things on their own," he was kneeling next to the bed now, his face near level with hers, and the feeling in her stomach grew, twisting upon itself as it changed, "but I thought you might be having a tough time of it. Maybe want some company, or to talk about it, or, I dunno, someone to argue that you're doing just fine with – I'm not sure what really, T'Pol, only that I know _I_'m having a hard time dealing with the fact that you nearly became some pig-man's slave girl, so I figure _you_ have to be doing worse, even if you won't admit it."

Wearily, "I did say that I had found recent events to be disagreeable."

"So you did." Flashing another smile. "You must really be exhausted, to be making that kind emotional outburst on me. I guess I should let you get some sleep."

She would've been lying to herself if T'Pol had said she hadn't felt a stab of panic – different then the memory of the slave pens, but similar – when Trip leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, whispering "'Night."

She would've been lying even more-so to say that that panic hadn't grown as he started to get back to his feet.

"I-" she began, but the word caught in her throat as she, in something akin to desperation, started to sit up. "Trip – please-" He'd turned back to look at her, and expression of deep concern quashing what earlier amusement had remained. "Stay," she asked before she knew what she was asking.

"You sure?"

T'Pol was far from certain, but, whatever the reasons, it was clear that she felt better with him than without, and so, "I-" her mouth was suddenly dry. "I don't wish to be alone."

* * *

"I think Soong's heading for Cold Station Twelve," the captain said, looking at her with ill-concealed amusement. Despite the severity of the situation with which they were entering, she noted that Trip was having great difficulty holding back his mirth – presumably at the captain's reaction to the sight of her in a Starfleet jumpsuit rather than the modified version of it the High Command had insisted to Starfleet she be allowed to wear. (T'Pol had found the move irregular, even considered in the light of some of her government's other recent decisions, and could see little point to it. Her commissar's uniform had of a design practical for keeping the body cool in the heat of the desert, but the thermal material it had been made of to compensate for the temperature of a human vessel had negated it's primary purpose; the quartermaster had provided her with civilian clothing of similar design while in the Expanse. Rather than argue the point, as it had become obvious to her by that then that her mother had been correct and the illogic of the High Command knew no bounds, T'Pol had accepted the modified uniforms, worn one on the day of her commissioning, and intended never to do so again).

"I doubt he's popping by his old job just to say hi to some old friends."

"I concur. With the incubators taken from their outpost on Trialis, the most logical assumption is that they intend to 'liberate' the remaining embryos from cryogenic storage."

"And then," Trip added, "make themselves an army and pull humanity right back into the Eugenics Wars. Just how many Augments are we talking about here? A couple dozen?"

"One thousand eight hundred and twenty-two in total. I fail to see why so many were kept after the war ended."

"At the time, it was too controversial. Earth's governments couldn't decide how to handle the issue, so they put them into cold storage."

"'Sides, screwed up genes or not, they're still babies."

"It is my understanding that all these embryos are suspended at forty-seven days or less of gestation and would be non-viable unless specially incubated. That would hardly make them children."

"It's hardly their fault their parents decided their DNA wasn't good enough and have some of it rewritten. Maybe one day someone will figure out how to undo the damage, maybe not, but who are we to decided if they get to live or die?" she found it curious how passionate Trip was becoming on what seemed to her such a simple matter, all traces of previous joviality gone.

Trying to make the point clear, "Genetic alterations have to be done immediately after fertilization, before the cell begins to divide, so that the genes can spread naturally throughout the mitotic process, otherwise the same alterations would have to be made individually to multiple copies of DNA, compounding the chance for error. Additionally, I believe that there is a human saying to the effect that it is much more difficult to undo a problem than it is to create one." The idea of destroying so many potential lives was highly distressing, but when considered against the potential harm locked inside those cold storage vaults...

"We've got another saying too, and it's called playing god."

Suddenly making the pair re-aware of his presence, Captain Arch interrupted, firmly and clearing stating, "I just got off with Admiral Forrest. We've been authorised to use whatever force necessary to stop Soong. I need all the speed you can give me."

"You'll have it," the engineer said darkly.

If the captain noticed the unnecessary force with which Trip had activated the door controls, he did not mention it, commenting instead, "So, you decided to go with the uniform after all."

"I fail to understand how, when entering a hostile zone, my attire has attracted so much of the command staff's attention. I have already," she explained somewhat dryly, "had this discussion with Commander Tucker, Ensign Sato, and Doctor Phlox."

"Would you like to make it a ship-wide announcement? – it'll save you the trouble of having to explain to each crewmen individually."

"Hardly."

"Then how about just telling your captain? It was my understanding the High Command lobbied hard for the other one, something about Vulcan heritage that I got the impression from Forrest that the admirals gave into just because they were tired of hearing the Vulcans go on about it."

"Tradition would dictate that a Vulcan youth would wear such a uniform in service in an arid climate, and I am no longer a member of the High Command and this is hardly an arid climate."

Captain Archer's expression became the one humans perpetually got when they'd found something amusing in her words. It was useless to ask the captain to explain to her – he would then slip into the disagreeable tone he got when thought he'd "one-uped" her people – her unintentional humour; she would have to ask Trip after their shifts. If he wasn't intractable in his anger over the Augment embryos. "Youth, huh? Does that make this your rebellious teenage phase?"

"I assure you captain, youth is relative. When you were born, I was already older than much of the crew."

Choosing to ignore her warning tone, "You know, thinking about it like that, it really explains a lot about you, T'Pol."

"Indeed."

As she turned for her post, she felt the captain briefly catch her arm. "Give him a little time," Archer told her, quietly and far more seriously than before. "I don't think you talking about destroying those embryos is going to sit well with him right now. He knows you mean well, but it's just too much like another alien wanting to kill humans at the moment."

* * *

Somewhere in between the salvoes from the bird-of-prey and her own orders to manoeuvre closer to the asteroid, T'Pol found herself wondering when Commander Tucker had learned to operate the science station. There was a level of similarity to all bridge controls and it was not uncommon for engineers to cross-train on the boards so as to better understand them when called upon for repairs, but she had never seen him at the station before. She was unduly curious to know if this was a recent development or whether it was merely an issue of never having had need to do so before. A third option presented itself – that, as long as she'd manning the station, he'd trusted her to do her job without coming behind her to check – but it required such implicit trust that she was reluctant to expand upon it, especially giving his early insistences that she'd been little more than a Vulcan spy.

Another thought crossed her mind, this one filled with some curiosity as to the commander's reaction when he discovered she had worked for the Security Directorate, if not as a spy, before joining the High Command, as the next torpedo hit.

"They're launching a shuttle: Augments and one human; bird-of-prey moving to intercept."

"Soong. Divert all fire."

As the torpedoes fired, she'd yet another thought that meditation – and a mind whose neural pathways had not been so grievously mistreated – would've kept from entering her mind in the midst of battle: where were the embryos? were they on the shuttle? More troubling still: if they were and the shuttle was destroyed, would the humans see it as the logical choice or the murder of over eighteen hundred children? would Trip be able to forgive her, if forgiveness proved necessary?

Most troubling of all: would she be able to forgive herself?

There was a part of her that was truly relieved when the Klingon ship went into warp.

As she waited for the captain to contact _Enterprise_ from the asteroid, her father's words ran though her mind once more, making no more sense than they ever had.

* * *

a/n: I don't know if I like this chapter, but it could simply be from looking at it too much. Or it could be because I found it rather difficult to insert ops for TnT into this episode. One good thing, though, is it appears merciless begging for reviews *does* work, as doing so last chapter doubled my reveiw count. Consider the request repeated her, for my own sanity and quicker chapters. A second: betwen this chapter and last, I've scraped together enough money/time/etc to put together my own website for my writing, which should (if all goes as planned) be able to go live by the end of the week. I'll still continue to post here, but what can I say? I'm an internet junkie. -aadarshinah


	6. The Augments

The Augments

* * *

"How long can we sustain warp five?"

"As long as the captain wants," Trip said testily. He'd barely left Engineering since Malcolm had the brilliant idea of reconfiguring the warp coils to mock a bird-of-prey, which, given Klingon engineering design, had required jury-rigging the engines to the point where three-fourths of the status displays were taken up with warning lights. There was a reason he hadn't suggested it in the first place. Engine designs created very specific warp signatures, and specific engines lent themselves to very specific ship designs, all of which were outgrowths of the natural thought processes of the species that created them:

Vulcan engines were very efficient, and could run almost half as long again as _Enterprise_ could on the same amount of antimatter; but this efficiency meant that to increase the warp factors their ships could obtain, the engines had to grow geometrically in size. Engines and ships, however, could only grow about so large before becoming too impractical to build, capping off their speeds at warp six point six or so. At least, that was what a century of humans reverse engineering the ships from vague hints and suppositions had determined.

Andorian engines were almost the exact opposite, built for speed; with their smaller scout ships, they could reach warp seven three, or so he'd heard. Such high warps, however, could only be sustained in small-massed vessels, and ships like Commander Shran's _Kumari_ could go no faster than _Enterprise_ – this information easily obtained from the Vulcans, for whom the Andorian "threat" was enough to outweigh the danger of cultural contamination they were always going on about.

Human ships fell somewhere in between these, not incredibly fast when compared to some other species, but with real possibilities, if they could just work out all the kinks – and maybe get back to exploring for a while, so he had time to tinker with his engines, rather than find new and exciting ways to hold them together with creatively re-purposed parts and gun-tape for once.

But that, he told his tired brain, was neither here nor there when he was trying to make their warp signature look like a bird-of-prey, which, given the raw-power-minded design of Klingon engines, left _Enterprise_ running in a way that certainly voided the warranty. After all, if there were an easy – or practical – way to change a warp signature without changing out an engine, the various races of the galaxy would've been using the trick for centuries already in their wars. "Or until we blow up, whichever comes first."

"Adjust the scanning frequency fifteen megahertz." Soong, the engineer thought darkly, looked particularly well-rested. Bastard. Trip would have to add emergency triple shifts and being forced to work with amoral mad scientists to his list of things his life could do without. "Sorry about that business with the Orions. Hope you weren't permanently injured."

Mad scientists especially. "Why don't you stay focused on what you're doing?"

"_Someone_'s a little protective of Commander T'Pol."

"I just don't like you very much."

"Tsk, tsk Commander Tucker, didn't your mother ever teach you to play nice with others?"

"I don't suppose yours taught you the danger of playing 'round with people's genes."

"I would think you of all people would be interested in the benefits of genetic manipulation."

Perhaps it was because he was so tired, having not had a decent night's sleep since spacedock – the night after they'd rescued T'Pol and the others from the Orions had been nice, something a human might actually consider part of a normal relationship, even if staying up most the night and talking about whatever came to mind because neither could sleep had not been particularly restful, – but it took Trip a moment to think through this comment. "Is that supposed to mean something?" He was too tired to get properly angry. Too tired to think of anything but finding the Augments and getting the hell out of Klingon space.

"This may surprise you, Commander Tucker, but prison is boring. Amazingly so. I have my work, but there is something restrictive about being only able to work theoretically."

"Your point being, Doctor?" the first officer asked, walking around the main systems display console with one of her stoical Vulcan expressions that even years of study could only provide him with a list of options for it's meaning. Trip guessed it was something along the lines of _you're testing my emotional control, human_, having been on the receiving end of that look many, many times before.

"I _read_, Commander T'Pol. Newspapers, scientific journals, gossip rags..." Suddenly noticing the soft beeping of the console, Soong turned towards it, apparently forgetting all about them and what his reading habits might have to do with their need for his... unique talents. "Is that them?"

"It is Klingon, but not the bird-of-prey."

"Just what we need. I suppose explaining to them that we're only here to chase down the Augments like their High Council wanted is going to work, is it?"

"Unlikely." Hitting the comm button, "Captain Archer to the Bridge."

T'pol walked passed him on the way to her post with a look the engineer could definitely understand. The captain could try to convince whoever was in charge of this ship that they had the High Chancellor aboard again but, sooner or later, they'd run across someone who knew where the Klingon leader actually was, and the game would be up. Or the Klingon ship would pass into visual range before Jon could get them to go away. Or any of a hundred other possibilities, most of which ended with their game being discovered one way or another...

He gave her a nod that he hoped she interpreted as _I'll be in Engineering; just give the word, and I'll find a way to keep us together, _and moved for the lift.

"It's a D5 class battle cruiser," he heard as the door closed, "on an intercept course." For a moment, left to his own thoughts, panic rose within him. This was not what he'd signed on to do. All he'd wanted was to explore. To go farther and faster than any other human had gone before. All these wars, all these battles, they were not what he wanted – he'd learned that in the Expanse; as mind-numbingly angry as he'd been with the Xindi, the deaths of so many crewmen he'd known personally, whose faces he still found himself searching for in the corridors, had proved to him he wasn't a warrior and wasn't meant to be. Maybe there had been something grand and noble in the old days about dying in battle, but war had come to him to seem like nothing more than the worst type of misunderstanding between two peoples. Perhaps the greatest thing in this modern day and age was to die old and in bed, surrounded by loved ones, and preferably without ever having had to pick up a phase pistol once...

Trip pushed these thoughts away quickly. He hated fighting, yes, but it was better to fight and defend themselves than the alternative. Better a high-risk engagement behind enemy lines than an Earth allowed to be destroyed by the Xindi. Better a skirmish with a single ship than an all-out war with the Klingons over the sins of Earth's past. Better _Enterprise_, which had the best damn crew in the fleet, than anyone else. He just hoped one day he'd stop feeling this way before every confrontation.

It was so much easier when he was the one in the captain's chair, too busy dealing with the situation to let his thoughts carry themselves away.

It was easier still when the elevator – finally – deposited him on D Deck, in the well-ordered chaos of the engine room. He didn't have to be a solider or politician or a peacemaker or anything other than an engineer. He could lose himself in his work, in the certainty that, whatever might be happening elsewhere in the ship, he was in control of this little corner of the universe. Here all problems could be conquered, if he'd the wits enough to come up with a plan and a team good enough to implement it. Neither had failed him yet.

"Anna," he called out to Lieutenant Hess, who he was sure he'd ordered to rest before he'd headed up to the situation room, as he entered, spotting her on the control platform, "we've got company again. Looks like our disguise isn't going to hold for much longer. Grab whoever you need and get ready to pull the baffles off the plasma accelerators-" Trip paused as he passed by a display panel, a warning light flicking to life there a second before _Enterprise_ was rocked by a volley of torpedo fire.

Before they'd completely regained their footing, he saw his teams start to move, knowing their places, and whatever doubts, whatever fears Trip still had vanished as the certainty set in that, no matter what happened, they had been trained well, and would be ready for anything Captain Archer could ask of them.

* * *

It never lasted, though. It never did. It had always been his problem, this perpetual worry in the back of his mind that, no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he would, somehow, fail. Most the time could ignore the niggling sensation, which had plagued him throughout school, to the point that, after submitting for consideration the article that eventually caught Jeffreys' attention, he'd managed to work himself into such a state that everyone else thought he'd come down with the worst forty-eight hour bug they'd ever seen. But after he'd joined Starfleet... Those first four years had been crazy, and he'd barely had time to breathe, let alone over-analyse anything in his life, and, after that, well, he'd discovered that, the farther he threw himself into his work, the less he thought about things he'd rather not have to.

Then Jon and A.G. and the rest of the crowd that hung around them had come along, and suddenly Trip had been reminded of all the things in life that existed outside of work; the things that his mother had always wanted for him – wife, kids, house, dog – that he'd started insisting the moment he hit his teens that he _didn't_ want, for the sole reason he was a stubborn teenager and was sure that anything his parents might want would keep him in small town Florida when all he'd ever dreamed of were the stars.

Naturally, of course, when he started letting other things in, the cycle of worries had begun again. In his work, Trip could always be certain he was doing the right thing, but, when it came to relationships... Well, Mom had always told him he tried too hard when it came to people who really mattered...

Maybe that's why he'd never given up on T'Pol.

But now that he had her – and he couldn't even be sure of that, the voice was sure to remind him – he was deathly afraid of loosing her again. It was stupid, he knew, considering that she had brought him home to met her mother and that she had asked him to stay the other night, but the fear remained, keeping him from the sleep he could, finally, catch up on now that Soong was safely locked in the brig again and the Augments were gone once and for all. Oh, there were other things too – the state of the engines, which his team was trying to restore to some order even now; the messages that had queued up while he'd been busy trying to keep _Enterprise_ running, including no less than three from his mother (all of which he'd deleted after listening partially to the first, which berated him for not visiting when he'd been on leave) and one from Starfleet Command, with yet another offer to get him to transfer to _Columbia_ (the third since the Expanse; the Xindi probe had killed most of the boys at the R&D complex near Santa Clara, meaning that the veterans of the NX Program Starfleet had left were either in postings aboard starships or already working on the NX-02. Trip kept telling them to offer the job to Kelby or Williams, both of whom he'd worked with before and could handle the job, even if they were only lieutenant commanders, but the admirals seemed insistent on getting him) – but, in the end, no matter his other problems, his thoughts kept coming back to her and how on Earth they could make it work when he feared that the first serious argument...

It was stupid, it was ridiculous and juvenile and many other things besides, but that's how it was. He'd very nearly convinced himself to give up the pretence of sleep until he could track T'Pol down and figure out just what was going on between them so that he'd at least _know _when the computer sounded a visitor was at his door.

"Come in," he yawned, reaching for the lights as he sat up. Blinking furiously, "T'Pol, what you doing here?"

Coming to stand in the exact centre of the room and offering a slightly-less-than-emotionless Vulcan stare, "I came to apologize."

"Apologize? Apologize for what?" The words almost caught in his throat, not wanting to be said, sure that her response would be some perfectly logical and valid reason on why they could not be together. The fraternization policies, for one. The fact that they were of two different species from two different worlds and, frankly, had never gone longer than a week without a serious argument was another. A part of Trip wanted to say so first, to tell her that Romeo and Juliet stood a better chance of making it than they did, if only so it wouldn't be his heart that was trampled upon this time, but he stopped himself at the sight of her, standing there, hands moving of their own accord as they had that day in her mother's home when she'd said they wanted her to marry Koss. It reminded him that he wasn't the only one who didn't know where this relationship was heading.

Her words, "I believe you called it 'trying to play god'," however, seemed complete non sequiturs, and it took a long moment for the memory of their discussion about the Augment embryos eight or nine coffee pots ago to pull itself into the light. "It was not my intention to cause you distress. I know the embryos were innocent, without ill intentions, at the moment, but if they had been allowed to grow up, they would have caused as much harm to your planet as their kinsmen a century-and-a-half ago."

An, "Uh-huh," was the best Trip could manage, still trying to remember exactly what he'd said.

"Perhaps it is fallacious to claim that the embryos would have matured into murderers and brigands when they cannot now become anything, not even children, but, knowing the history of the Eugenics Wars and what damage a band of eighteen of those Augments could do," she'd taken a step forward, the beginning of a pace, but caught herself quickly, "we must remember that the needs of the many out weigh the needs of the few..."

Swallowing, "You're right, of course. It's just..." He wasn't sure _what_ it had been any more, only that, at the time, the idea of intentionally destroying eighteen hundred children, even unborn ones, had seemed sickening. Maybe he just hadn't believed the Augments to truly be without redemption until he'd seen what they'd done to Cold Station Twelve.

"Captain Archer suggests that, on an unconscious level, my suggestion reminded you of the actions undertaken by the Xindi-"

"Darlin', the _last_ thing you could ever remind me of is the Xindi."

"He seemed to think that the idea of another alien-"

Snorting, "T'Pol, Jon's hardly the person to ask about these things. Our problem's not that I see you as alien, but that I keep on forgetting you're Vulcan. It's your own fault, you know."

Tone becoming teasing, "I fail to see how your memory problems could be my fault, Trip."

"Well, most the time you act like nothing more than a particularly logical – and infuriating – human, and so it comes as a shock when you do something outright alien."

"You believe that, had these been genetically-altered Vulcans, I would have behaved differently?"

"Not really, no. But we've been arguing for years, T'Pol; you know better to take anything I say too seriously when I'm mad. If anything, I should be the one apologizing to you."

Appearing to decide that standing there wasn't going to work, she joined him on the bed, folding her legs underneath her like she did when she meditated and sitting close enough that, if he turned just a little, his thigh would brush against her knee. Though still now, she still filled the room with a sense of completely un-Vulcan nervous energy. "I just came from speaking with Doctor Soong."

Too tired to understand what this had to do with anything but sensing that they'd come to the real reason she was here, Trip only nodded and forced his eyes to stay open. It wasn't like he'd been getting much rest before anyway.

"It appears that the media interest on Earth for the 'Heroes of the Xindi War' is still quite high, and a number of articles were published about _Enterprise_ and the senior staff while we were on leave, and that some of the less salutary of these discovered that we went to Vulcan together and made much of it... Doctor Soong, having read, it would seem, every piece on the matter and observed our interactions, has concluded that we are mates and tried to barter for his release with the promise that, once he was free, he would provide us with a viable method for human-Vulcan hybridization."

"He tried to bribe you?" such was the only part of her words that immediately leapt out at him. "That's another one Jon's not going to believe."

"Why would the captain not believe it? There is security footage of our conversation-"

"It's the idea of someone trying to bribe a Vulcan. It's just... funny, that's all."

"Then perhaps you will find this amusing as well, but I would like to try to bribe you."

Indeed, a snort of laughter did escape him, though it died as he saw the absolute seriousness on the Vulcan's face. Half-turning so he ended up with one leg folded beneath him and the other remaining dangling over the edge of the bed, he offered her the most earnest expression at his disposal, "I love you."

"I know."

Nonplussed, "You know?"

"You _have_ mentioned it before."

"Darlin'," Trip said with a small laugh, "it's a human thing. When we love someone, we like to tell them so. Often. I know Vulcans aren't comfortable with emotions and I don't expect you to ever say it back, but you'll have to bear with me when I say that I love you. And that means that there is nothing you can say that could be bad enough that I'd need a 'bribe' to understand it."

Her eyes darted away and back just as quickly, a restive habit he'd seen all-too-often from her since the Expanse. Part of him was glad for it, to know that even she didn't fully understand what they were, but there was a larger part that could all but feel her distress and would do anything to quiet it, even if that meant walking away. God, he hoped it wouldn't come to that; he didn't know how he'd survive if it did. "When I was a child," she said with great care, "I was taught that family was of greatest importance. After leaving home, I could have my career, but, at a certain point, I would have to set that aside for two or three decades – long enough, at least, to bear children and care for them until they came of age – and..."

"And you're saying you want kids?" Trip thought his voice might've broken in the asking. Considering not two minutes ago he had been certain that T'Pol was ready to end their, well, whatever they had, he considered this was a very understated reaction.

"No!" she said forcibly. Then, in a more normal tone, "Possibly. Not at this time, at least. We both have our careers and I, for my part, do not wish to leave _Enterprise_ at this time... But, the fact remains that, should we ever wish them, I may not be able to provide you with children."

"Isn't it a bit early to be talking about kids?" he was _definitely_ too tired for this conversation, even if he couldn't sleep. A large part of him wasn't even certain he was having it, though it was sending a new kind of panic through him. "I mean, we just got together, started dating, whatever the hell you want to call it, just a couple of weeks ago. We're not even married yet. 'Sides, I was kinda under the impression you weren't big on tradition."

"That is true... but my conversation with Doctor Soong caused the issue to come to mind, and the last several days have found me thinking of Lorian..."

Honestly, "I'm at a loss here, T'Pol. What part of this has to do with you trying to bribe me for anything?"

They were still sitting there, knee to knee, on his bunk when, suddenly, she leaned forward and kissed him, hard, a hand coming up to pull his face closer. She released him just as suddenly, breathing deeply herself, as she said, "I need you to be comfortable with the idea we may never have children of our own, because I wish to be mated to you regardless, and am willing to do most anything to convince you to comply."

"We're going to have to really work on your idea of romance, T'Pol."

"Trip-"

He kissed her in response. "A hint about bribery? You don't need to bother with it when the other person's okay with what you want."

Her whole body seemed to sink with relief at this. "That is... very pleasing."

"Now, I think we're both exhausted..." he yawned, before offering a sleepy grin, very sure, at the moment, of her answer, "and I don't know about you, but I think I'd sleep a whole lot better if you were to join me."

T'Pol gave an exasperated eyebrow, as if to ask, _you expected otherwise?_ He was, at last, fast asleep, by the time she removed her uniform and slipped back into the bed beside him, and so he missed the ghost of a smile that followed it as she too slept peacefully for the first time in many nights.

* * *

a/n: a couple of notes here: One, I'm actually rather happy with this chappie, now that I got it out. It's proven to be rather difficult to shoehorn TnT into this story arc... and it let's me start work on the Kir'shara arc, which I'm excitied about. Two, this is the first time I've gotten a doc to upload to this site without half of it changing into chinese charectors, at least as far as I can tell... so yeah. Three, tomorrow's a big day for me, which may, quite possibly, finally land me a job, so keep your fingers crossed... or just reveiw. I like reveiws. They let me know people are actually reading this. So, if you are... you know what to do.

Clerical notes: 1) It never made any sense to me that Trip was the only engineer who could make the warp 5 engines work (it had to be such a huge effort, there had to at least be a few others), so I've posited that the major warp R&D center was near Santa Clara, Cuba, which lies somewhat on a line between Florida and Venezuela and, therefore was destroyed (killing many brilliant minds) in the Xindi attack, thus making capable warp engineers few and thereby giving a semi-credible explination to _Columbia's _long delay. 2) I don't know who first made Lt. Hess's first name Anna, but, after reading so many stories where that is the case, it now cannot be anything other, so, whoever you are, you have your props for that. 3) It occured to me that the idea of Soong trying to bribe T'Pol had already been used in a nice onesie by Distracted, but not until I was 88% done with this chapter and too happy with it to change it. So props there as well, and the hope that she doesn't mind too much.


	7. The Forge, Part One: Chrysalis

The Forge

Part One, Chrysalis

* * *

"_You have no idea how much you are going to come to regret this juvenile undertaking, T'Pol_,"_ her mother said, sounding every bit as stern as she had nearly six decades earlier on finding a much younger T'Pol attempting to sneak back into the family compound after three days alone in the desert –_ that was how all T'Pol's memory-dreams began recently. She had rarely, if ever, dreamed before coming to _Enterprise_, but _pa'nar_ and the Expanse had changed that. They were rarely the strange and disturbing phantasmagoria they had been when she was using the trellium, instead having become crystalline replays of her less salutary memories. Azati Prime had been the subject of these dreams for the longest time; now they were of her final conversations with her mother.

"_I thought the _kal-if-fee_ was quite a logical solution to an undesired situation, Mother."_

"_It is quite obvious what you thought, daughter if you were not so blinded by your emotions to be able to think at all. Your... infatuation... with this human will only lead to unacceptable places. The purpose of mating is not to indulge the whims of-"_

"_Mother, please," she said, in the same tone she'd used the day she informed T'Les of her acceptance to the Vulcan Security Directorate. T'Pol had never informed her mother of her application to the ministry, knowing that, if she had, her mother would have tried to prevent it, wanting to see her stationed in some safe laboratory on Vulcan or one of the orbital research stations instead, "Spare me the lecture on the 'perpetuation of the species.' We're Vulcans, not mindless animals; mating for us should be more than the mindless rutting of animals-"_

"_'Should be' and actuality are quite different things, as you would do well to learn; whatever indignity we may consider the _pon farr, _it is our genetic heritage-"_

_T'Pol fought the human desire to roll her eyes at her mother in exasperation. Of course, now that she had turned away her Vulcan mate, they'd speak of this subject. "Genetic heritage or not, it is not our fate-"_

"_And now you speak of 'fate' and 'destiny' like the humans too? Is it not enough that you openly share a bed with a man who is not your husband, as their females do, and set aside logic for their irrationality, but now you've taken up their implausible beliefs as well?"_

"_DNA is not destiny," she continued over T'Les, her voice rising for the first time in their argument. "Just because-" the commander caught herself and lowered her voice, "Just because our genes say it should be so does not mean that we cannot overcome it. Our ancestors overcame their emotions with logic."_

"_There is _nothing_ logical about this mating."_

"_Perhaps not," T'Pol conceded, "But I am content in it."_

"_Perhaps you are content now, but what of you when this human leaves you-"_

"_A pointless speculation, Mother; he will not leave me."_

"_They are a fickle species. Their whims change by the hour. That this one has cleaved to you for as long as he has is nothing more than an accident of statistics."_

_There were times when T'Pol worried this too, but would not let her mother see it. That thought was for her alone, to be contemplated in the wretched, worrisome moments that sometimes overcame her when the want - the need - the desire for the trellium suddenly set upon her, whispering dark and terrible things that she, for her own sanity, refused to believe were true. She had made many, many mistakes in her short life, but she refused to believe that Trip was one of them. "You do not know humans, Mother, and you most certainly do not know Commander Tucker."_

"_I know enough to know this coupling is untenable. And this one's name - 'trip' - is that not one of their words for a stumble or some other misstep? What sort of people are these, that even their names are so illogical? How do you expect him to protect you-?"_

"_I find your fixation on my need for protection the illogical thing," she declared in exasperation, rising from the seat she'd taken across from T'Les in the front room and turning away. A tide of emotion pulsed against the walls of its cage and threatened a storm beneath her chest. For a moment it surged there, this swath of feelings that she couldn't separate to understand, only knowing that some part of it was justifiable pique, some part of it irrational rage, and part of the rest were things whose names in her language had been quickly lost after The Awakening, emotions which were meant to be suppressed so deeply that even their shadows were never felt. It was a maddening moment, a flood of feelings tossing her every which way, demanding release but they, thankfully, faded quickly, curling themselves back into their places after that moment had passed, and T'Pol was able to continue, still looking anywhere but towards her mother, "It should be evident by now that I do not require other's assistance to shield myself from the consequences of my actions. Even if I were to need such aid, who do you believe I require such protection from? Koss chose to release me rather than fight, and, from what I know of him, might well have released me had I chosen any challenger." Her former fiancé - and she took admittedly irrational delight in the 'former' part of this title - was many things, including, quite probably, a good man and worthy mate, but he was not the type of man who would take pride in his marriage if he'd killed her challenger in _kal-if-fee_. _

_Continuing, "His father is powerful, yes, but Subminister Serek keeps the old ways. He will see my challenge as legal and will pursue another mate for his son; in all likelihood, he is relieved at the chance to find a mate for him who will be content to stay on Vulcan, one who will not allow covert listening posts to be discovered by our enemies and will not interfere when our government tries to suborn the actions of another sentient species, and so will not trouble either of us." _

"_As for the High Command, my Starfleet commission will become official upon my return to Earth and they will be unable to reach me soon enough."_

"_Starfleet will not be able nor will it desire to protect its single Vulcan member from her government forever."_

"_The High Command may govern Vulcan, but that hardly makes them my government."_

_T'Les's voice grew tight, anxious for a moment before she caught herself. It was enough to make T'Pol turn back towards her; she had never heard her mother loose control, not even for a second, of her emotions. "You are Vulcan; that makes the High Command your government." For some reason, this momentary slip gave the commander the strength to make the declaration that followed:_

"_The High Command is corrupt. The path they endorse is not the one Surak created; it cannot be, for Surak's teachings allowed us to control our emotions and end our wars, whereas our administrators have done nothing but bring us closer to conflict. Without the actions Captain Archer and Commander Tucker - part of this Starfleet you appear to think so little of, and with all the human fallacies, - we would be at war now with the Andorians over Paan Makar: a most illogical action if I ever heard one."_

"_You have always been strong-minded, T'Pol. A single disagreement with the High Command does not corruption make._

"_A human philosopher once said, _'The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.' _Show me a minister who does not subscribe to Administrator V'Las's agenda; tell me of a Vulcan who has not been chastised for questioning the High Command's actions of the last half-century or not been penalized when such concerns were brought before the ministers; remind me if I have remembered incorrectly of a time since The Awakening when peaceful protesters have been labelled dissidents and terrorists - do any of that for me, Mother, and I will acknowledge your greater wisdom and admit the superiority of your logic."_

_T'Les said nothing, only stood and, without looking back, went down the hall towards her bedroom, leaving her daughter standing there, by the front door, filled with a frustration she had, to this point, never felt towards anyone not human. Uncontrollably, the commander's hands rose and began to curl into fists before, looking down, she discovered what her limbs had been doing of their own accord and quickly forced them back by her sides, a flash of something akin to fear passing behind her eyes. The_ pa'nar,_ she thought. She was loosing her battle –_ and at this point in her memory-dream, she shuddered. She always did when she reached this point, and the part of her that remembered this was nothing more than a dream urged her to wake up and find herself on _Enterprise, _where she could go to Doctor Phlox as she had twice since Vulcan and get reassurance that, whatever else was wrong with her, the neurological damage had not worsened since her return - _and, before long, it would destroy her. _

_She fought to suppress her emotions, which shifted from vexation to saudade for years past, when she had still believed in the absolute superiority of her people and their policies. Not that she had ever truly felt comfortable with her own culture, but the tantivy of the change was enough to reek havoc on controls already tenuous from the stressors of her shore leave. Trip was elsewhere, toying with one of her mother's appliances while the heat of midday made it inadvisable to 'show him the sights;' she should return to their room to meditate before her control worsened. _

_T'Pol did not notice her mother's re-entrance until T'Les came to stand beside her, placing a bound scroll in her hand –_ In reality, T'Les had told her daughter at this point that she too was discontent with Vulcan society, that she _had_ taken restricted data from the Academy archives, but that the data had been nothing more than a millennium-old discourse on the possible routes that Surak might have taken through The Forge during is discovery of the logic that saved their race, and that even as little as a hundred years ago the document had been accessible to all who might, whatever their reasons, wish to read such an obscure tome. Her mother would have gone on to explain how she had stolen the document and transcribed it in pieces, sending them to members of a dissident group which had been radically suppressed for daring to say openly that the High Command's path might not be the true way, had this been a true memory, and that the papers T'Pol now held were a compilation of her correspondence with Syrran from the last two years.

But, in the dreams, this was not so, and here changed from the innocent, if unpleasant, memories to something more akin to a nightmare, created by her damaged mind for the singular purpose of frightening her - _The moment she clasped the papers, the room around them changed. Instead of the open and sun-filled front room of her mother's house, the pair now found themselves in a dark, narrow stretch of passageway. The walls were rough hewn around her, shadows dancing in macabre patterns on them each time the star-riddled sky above flickered strangely with flavescent light. For a moment, it reminded her of thunderstorms she'd witnessed on other, more temperate planets. But this was Vulcan, or so she assumed; rains were rare and severe ones even less so. It wasn't until she became aware of the high-pitched whistle that preceded each thunderous boom that T'Pol realized what was happening overhead. "Mother, we must leave," she said, starting to drop her hand away as she tried to listen more closely, to discover which way they bombs were approaching from._

_The sound, however, seemed to come from all directions, and there was nowhere to go. T'Les, either knowing this or not caring, would not let her daughter turn away, and grabbed her by the wrist, placing her other hand on T'Pol's other arm as she turned back. "You must stay away."_

"_Stay away?" the commander repeated, stupefied - _every time she had this dream, she was confused at the question, and its many replays had not changed this - "_We__ don't have time for this, Mother. We must _go." _She tried to pull away, but T'Les only grasped her tighter. _

"_It is not safe." Her mother's voice was openly anxious now, and, rather than raise on eyebrow at the obviousness of the comment, T'Pol found herself growing more worried. T'Les did not show her emotions, and, if a slight slip had been unusual, this intense, radiating trepidation was unheard. "It is already starting."_

"_What is starting?"_

_A streak of green passed closely overhead, the bomb's shrill scream drowning out her mother's response, if there had been one at all. Before it had passed out of sight, it burst with a cacophony of light and sound, causing the ground to shake underneath them. Above the cannonade of munitions (older, unguided, thermobaric bombs by the sound and duration of their blast wave, a small part of her mind - the part that had never left the Security Directorate - noted with detachment; it was a logical way to ensure both the destruction of the surroundings and maximum loss of life in an area where technology might not be guaranteed to work), above the whirling hum of aircraft (combustion engines, also useful for areas of geomagnetic or other instabilities that made modern power cells untenable, which, she must assume, this was), above the distant sounds of people, the rock rumbled around the pair. "Mother," she repeated, voice thick with concern she did not bother to hide, "We must leave. Now."_

_T'Pol tugged at her mother's hands once more, giving up the attempt to get the older woman to release her grip and trying to pull her along instead. "It is not safe," T'Les said faintly, not from fear, though T'Pol could feel her own anxiety growing as the seconds passed, but as if from great distance, "You must stay away."_

_Then T'Les released her daughter, and the world went black and silent around her. For a moment, there was only the thudding of her heart, the rapid intake of her lungs, and then-_

-and then her eyes flashed open, and she was safe and far away from Vulcan, in her own quarters aboard _Enterprise_, Trip asleep next to her. At some point in the night, his arm had wrapped around her, pulling her close so that that her head rested against his chest and she could hear the slow, steady strum of his heart. She lay there, counting the beats and reminding herself that it was only a dream. She was unused to such things, dreams, even if usually they were nothing more than unwanted memories; these fantasies - these nightmares - were by far the most distressing side effect of her addiction. The rest she could handle, with time, but the memory-dreams she could not stop, no matter how much meditation she tried.

She would just have to learn to live with them. That would be the logical thing to do, to quietly plaster over the consequences of her misjudgement and behave as if nothing had changed when, in fact, everything had. It would be the Vulcan thing to do. T'Pol, however, had done much that most Vulcans would not, and the damage to her synaptic pathways made complete suppression of her emotions an untenable solution...

Before she could follow her thoughts much further down this path, she could feel Trip start to stir beside her, sleepily querying her what time it was and, upon receiving the response, asking what they were doing up at such a time when _Enterprise _wasn't due to reach Vulcan for another three hours.

"Two point six three eight hours, to to accurate. However, I...she paused for a moment, torn between the old impulse of curbing any suggestion of emotion and the acknowledgement that Trip, as a human, had more experience than she in dealing with unsuppressible feelings. He shifted towards her, seeming to sense that, for a moment, she considered offering a deception, and resulting loss of warmth, however momentary, was enough to make her remember that Trip was her mate and, whatever else that might mean, there was a certain level of intimacy inherent to that relationship. He would not think less of her for her dreams... "I merely had an unpleasant dream. I did not mean to wake you."

"I thought dreaming was one of those things that Vulcans didn't do."

"It would appear that I am an aberration in this regard."

"Wouldn't know about that," he said somewhat amusedly around a yawn. "There seem to be a lot that you Vulcans don't talk about, even among yourselves. For all you could know, every Vulcan goes around dreaming and pretending that they don't because they think that no one else does."

Dryly, "I find that highly unlikely. My emotion control has always been more... tenuous... than most."

"Well, don't know about _always_," he said with a disbelieving roll of his eyes, "But you've gotten easier to read with time."

"The Expanse," she admitted guardedly. As certain as she was that Trip would not be offended by her dreaming, T'Pol was equally certain that he would despise her if ever he were to find out their cause. Since she could not let that happen, Trip must never be allowed to know of her trellium addiction. Doctor Phlox would be the only one to ever know of her grievous weakness, "was difficult.

"At least we know you've still mastery of the Vulcan art of understatement. So, you want to talk about this dream or...?"

She would, in truth, rather disregard the dream in its entirety. She would, despite its dubious logic, like to find a way to send a message back through time to herself so that she never was exposed to the trellium in the first place and so never began dreaming. She would, for all her disillusionment with her government, liked to have still believed that, when they got to Vulcan, the Security Directorate would be helpful and allow their investigation to continue unimpeded, so that she could have slept without trouble. But these were hardly viable alternatives and so, without other recourse, attempted to relate to Trip the more salient points.

"You'll see when we get to Vulcan," he told her at the end of it, still somewhat surprised that she'd taken him up on his offer at all. "Your mom will be fine."

It was an illogical statement considering that, in hiding with other members of her dissident group, it was unlikely that she would be able to determine anything about her mother's well-being. She let Trip believe it settled her the greater portion of her worries - Vulcans, after all, no more worried than they dreamed. As for the rest, those he attempted to subdue in the traditional human manner, with physical intimacy, an endeavour whose success she'd not yet had reason to question.

It was strange, this notion that sexual congress could help one work through certain emotions. That this method worked when the sea of feelings grew too tempestuous for traditional Vulcan methods to handle was stranger still and, quite possibly, a side effect of the various assaults and damages done to her mind. But there were times more appropriate to such contemplation than this one, stolen from the demands placed upon them by their respective duties, and T'Pol deepened the kiss that he offered, all thoughts of their mating's illogic momentarily forgotten.

Until the comm beeped overhead.

"How," Trip breathed in frustration, head falling back, "How they always know?"

Choosing not to dignify this oft repeated question with a response, she reached across him for the comm. "T'Pol here."

To their mutual surprise, it was not the third-shift communications officer or one of her subordinates with some question that could, as seemed their wont of late, have held the one point three hours until her duty shift began. "Sorry to wake you, Commander," the captain stated in a tone that that did little to belay his words, "but I need you to meet me at the port airlock as soon as possible. Seems the High Command doesn't want to wait for us to reach orbit before briefing us and sent a ship to rendezvous with us. They'll be here in half-an-hour."

"Understood." T'Pol released the button and began to disentangle herself from mate and bedclothes.

"One day," he groaned as she dressed, still laying in bed and apparently yet unsuccessful in convincing himself that it was, in fact, morning ship's time and that he'd have to wake soon for his shift anyway, "we're going to be able to have a night to ourselves, with no emergencies or spatial anomalies or anything else to bother us until we're ready to be bothered."

"One day," she echoed, knowing as she did how very far away that day might be.

* * *

She had not been expecting the Administrator. Major Stel, the Security Directorate's Chief Investigator, she had thought might be aboard the shuttle that had docked with _Enterprise_ just outside of the Vulcan system, but not Administrator V'Las.

Not that T'Pol supposed it really mattered. From what she'd heard of Stel during her time in reconnaissance and retrieval, he followed the party line straight down the centre - no one would ever have risen to his rank in that ministry otherwise, which was probably one of the reasons no one had discouraged her from leaving the Security Directorate for the High Command in 2137... and why the High Command hadn't thrown more than a perfunctory fuss when she'd resigned her commission seventeen years later. If they'd really wanted her return, they had better options than political bluster - men and women trained in reconnaissance and retrieval, for instance. But the fact of the matter was that the only use she had for her people now was as a way of discovering the location of her mother and the other Syrranites.

To that end, V'Las and Stel behaved as proper Vulcans should, acting as if they could not see her, the source of their displeasure, nor hear her when she spoke. It was already becoming quite tedious, though the ship was only just passing the outermost of Vulcan's four sister planets.

"Actually, they're Vulcans," she explained to Archer, who had thought Syrranites to be an as-yet unencountered species, "One of several small splinter groups who attempt to follow the path of Surak exactly as it was written eighteen hundred years ago. As all of his original texts have been lost, there are a number of varied interpretations of his teachings. The Syrranites are unique among these in that they claim that all extant documents are corrupted and, as such, are less of a religious denomination than a school of thought. Given their beliefs, I find it hard to think they would be involved in any violent terrorist action."

"They follow a corrupted form of Surak's teachings," Major Stel offered the moment she finished, as if the commander had not said anything at all.

Captain Archer, however, was beginning to let his irritation with the Chief Investigator show. "If they're so peaceful, what makes you think they would attack our embassy?"

"They've always been vocal about their opposition to the High Command, but their demonstrations have always been peaceful," Soval agreed. The Ambassador, too, she had expected, though his surprised expression at the mention of Syrranites as possible suspects was a surprise. The commander had always known Ambassador Soval to follow the party line; that he no longer seemed interested in doing so - or seeming to do so - said more for the severity of the situation than the thirty-one bodies that would shortly fill the cargo bay. The dead, after all, no longer had concern for the consequences of their actions.

"Over the past year, their leader, a dissident named Syrran, has become a dangerous zealot." T'Pol raised a brow. She may not have had the best relationship with her mother, but, having read her mother's correspondence with Syrran, T'Pol had gotten the impression that the Syrranites were going further underground and had no cause to believe the letters were fabricated. They were near to finding something in the desert, something they believed would put an end to the High Command's malfeasance, and until they did, the Syrranites would not risk capture by something as overt as a bombing, even if they were in the habit of killing innocents. Such a claim was not logical.

"Captain, I trust you to keep this matter confidential. We don't share it lightly. But recently, on our world, there have been instances of violence against non-Vulcans." T'Pol felt her brow go higher. There may have been actions against those Vulcans who did not conform to the standards set by the High Command, but she had heard nothing of any actions against foreigners. T'Les would have told her, listed it as a reason why she had become disenchanted with their society. "Though we have no conclusive proof, there are signs that Syrranites might be responsible."

"Is there any evidence connecting Syrranites to the bombing?"

"Your embassy is officially considered to be on Earth soil. We've preserved the site for you to investigate."

There was something ominous in the way the Administrator added, "If evidence is there, the Chief Investigator and I feel confident you'll find it."

"I intend to." Archer jabbed at the door controls and asked the crewman waiting outside to escort Administrator V'Las and Major Stel back to the airlock, where, their mission of misinformation accomplished, they gladly went, neither having acknowledged her presence once.

* * *

"Fancy seeing you here."

"I was told I could find you here." Her mate was kneeling in front of an opened panel in the Transporter Theory Lab, inserting a cable into a junction box. He smirked at her comment as he rose, tapping a command into the padd at the other end of the cable, and stood back.

"Not much to do in engineering while we're sitting in orbit, so I thought I might as well run those diagnostics Dr. Erickson wanted done before his sub-quantum transporter tests."

"It may be several weeks before we can return to Earth for those tests."

"Yeah, I know. But R&D has been bugging me for a draft of that manual you got me working on, and I figured I could work on that while the tests run... So," he asked, not causally at all, "whose DNA did you all find on the controls Travis and Malcolm pulled from the rubble?"

"It would appear that a woman named T'Pau delivered the bomb." T'Pol ignored the chair Trip offered and watched as he sank pensively into it instead. "She is a well-known Syrranite."

"And the Syrranites are the ones whose books your mom gave you, right?" She nodded. "I thought you said that the were 'non-violent to the point of absurdity,' or something like that."

Her exact words had been, _They speak of violence as something that can be avoided entirely, not appearing to realize that, until all peoples lay down arms, there must be some things we are willing to fight for, or else we have already forfeited our survival to those who are,_ but his was an apt enough summary. "It makes no sense to think the Syrranites are responsible for this outrage, even with DNA evidence. They may take issue with Starfleet, for allying with the High Command, but, even if terrorism was their way, their logical course of action would be to attack any number of Vulcan offices, not a human outpost."

"DNA doesn't lie. If it's T'Pau's DNA and her DNA's on the bomb, what else could it mean but that she's the bomber?"

"I do not care for the implications either, but the Security Directorate is the High Command's right arm, and have many means at their disposal of duplicitous nature that could be used to manufacture evidence to make us think that the Syrranites were responsible for the bombing."

"But why would they want us to think that? Why not make us think, I dunno, Andorians were responsible, or Tellarites?"

"I do not know. Only that you must recheck everything, question everything."

"Me?" Trip laughed derisively, "I don't know the first thing about investigations - that's what you and Malcolm are for."

"The answers we need are on Vulcan, quite possibly with the Syrranites. It is likely that, when I tell this to the captain, he will insist on joining me," which would leave Trip in command of _Enterprise_. "There is more going on here than we are aware, I am certain of it."

"A conspiracy."

"Possibly stretching as far as the High Command itself. Do not let the ministers keep you from allowing Lieutenant Reed to continue his own investigation, and they will try to prevent it. Trust no one except Ambassador Soval; he is more sympathetic to our cause than you believe."

* * *

T'Pol had hoped to cover some distance that night, to keep Captain Archer out of the extreme heat of a Vulcan desert at midday, but the sehlat had changed her plans. As there were few ways to distract one, none of which she would consider attempting when travelling with one so unpractised in desert survival, it appeared that they would have to wait for it to loose interest before continuing into The Forge. Even with the relative urgency of their mission, she could out-wait the beast.

Though the captain's instance on engaging in 'small talk' was becoming quite trying.

"You never did tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"If you're a Syrranite or not."

"A discussion my personal beliefs," she inclined her head towards the hungry sehlat below, "is irrelevant to our current situation."

"I know that Trip said something about your mom belonging to one of these 'dissident groups' and that you helped her flee the city while you were on leave together - is _she_ a Syrranite?"

"Yes."

"Are you?"

Repressing the urge to sigh, "Having never met Syrran, I cannot truly say whether I belong to his school of thought."

"But you're sympathetic to them. You know where their secret camp is." His words were accusing, as if she'd betrayed him somehow. Never not once, not even when she'd been forced to tell him of the _pa'nar,_ had he sounded thus. It cut at her, deeply; worse than she'd willingly admit, even to herself.

"I am only aware of the vague locality of their encampment, and am sympathetic to all peoples who strive to bring honesty, integrity, and logic back to Vulcan."

"T'Pol," the seriousness in his tone made her turn from watching the ursine - if only for a moment - to look at her captain despite her displeasure, "do you really think that the Syrranites will know why the High Command is suddenly eager to stamp them out, or are we just getting involved in a revolution that doesn't involve us?"

"Revolutions have a way of involving all people, Captain, not just the parties that instigate them."

"Damn it, T'Pol. I-"

A strange new cry came from below, and, thankful from the distraction from the captain's insentient questions and accusations, she turned to investigate.

A man stood at the foot of the dune, where the sehlat had been moments before, dressed for desert crossings and looking as if he had done so quite a few times in recent years. "The path is safe again," he called out, pausing to consider them for a moment. "A human and a Vulcan travelling together in The Forge. Curious." The commander personally found the man's presence the curiosity: either the High Command was sending someone to look for the Syrannites on foot (an endeavour for which they were likely to send only one, apparently unarmed, man), or he knew the path which he was taking well, as his countenance and demeanour would seem to suggest.

"Jonathan Archer," the captain introduced himself, descending the dune.

"T'Pol," she ventured, watching the man closely, "child of T'Les, child of T'Rana."

"I know a T'Les, child of T'Rana. Her daughter serves on a human starship."

"I am that daughter."

He showed more openly his recognition now, "Then you are the one who fought her own _kal-if-fee_."

She could feel the captain's eyes on her, questioning. As he had had never struck her as particularly cognisant of Vulcan traditions, T'Pol supposed his concern stemmed once more from his apparent fear that he was being dragged into a Vulcan coup. (Why this would bother him, when he held the High Command in less esteem than even she, she could not say, only that it proved once more the illogic of his species.) She tried not to let it bother her, that or the fact that it was quickly appearing her name on Vulcan would more closely be associated with her _koon-ut-kal-if-fee_ than her Starfleet commission, which she thought much more unusual. Tried was the operative word. "The challenge never actually came to blows, but, yes, that was I. Is that going to be a problem?"

The man had been studying Archer intently, even as the captain had been watching her, but now turned towards her. "No," he said succinctly before looking back, "I found it a most inventive solution to your problem. Is this the one to whom you are bound then?"

"No."

The man appeared pleased by this. "Then he is the human responsible for the destruction of the monastery at P'Jem."

"I do not suppose this will be a problem either."

"The High Command defiled P'Jem when they used it to spy on Andoria," he agreed. Now speaking directly to Archer, "You exposed their hypocrisy."

The captain, however, was highly weary (or was it something else? She could not always be sure she read human body language correctly, but she assumed that from previous experience that the captain was not happy with how the situation was unfolding), "You seem to know a lot about us. I'm guessing that means you know why we're here."

"There is only one reason to enter The Forge: to follow the path of Surak. But that path leads to many places, few of which are known at the onset; for the moment, yours would take you to the others, at the T'Kareth sanctuary. It's not far. I'll guide you both there."

The man turned away and began to journey deeper into The Forge. T'Pol began to follow and, after she had gone several feet, so did Archer. She slowed so that he could catch up to her, taking his pack from him despite his protests. Pride would not help them through The Forge, and the simple fact of the matter was that she was the stronger and better adapted to the environment, whatever his strange Earth customs insist upon.

"You know this guy?"

"I believe him to be a Syrranite."

"What was his name again?"

"He did not tell us."

"And you didn't think to ask?"

"It was not relevant."

"You know, I feel kind of strange being the one to ask this," he gave her a look she associated with humans remembering that she was, in fact, not human, "but how do we know we can trust him?

Indeed, she was usually the one advising him on trusting unusual aliens, however, "If he had nefarious intentions, Captain, he would not have chased off the sehlat."

"My name," the man called back, startling Archer, who had apparently forgotten about the acuteness of Vulcan hearing, "is Syrran."

* * *

"How Long do these sand-fire storms usually last?"

"A day, perhaps two," Syrran told them, glancing back towards the opening they had barricaded with small boulders that a previous tenet had, by the looks of it, collected for this very purpose. "It has been many years since I've seen one this strong. But we're safe here and in no hurry."

"Maybe we should be. The High Command believes that one of your people - a woman named T'Pau - is responsible for bombing the Earth embassy."

"That is not our way." Though he concealed it well, Syrran had been nonplussed at the mention of this particular follower, and was diverting the question, T'Pol noted, to divert attention away from his own concern.

"So I've heard," Archer said dryly.

T'Pol watched the two - Syrran every inch the logical, rational, non-violent Vulcan and apparently unbothered by the infamy she'd achieved amongst her people; the captain quite utterly human and becoming rather hot-headed as his impatience grew - quietly, realizing that under almost any other condition she'd be irritated by the sparks flying from such a clash of dichotomies. For the moment, though, her mind spared their discussion little thought as she remembered her oft-repeated dream...

She had insisted, the dream of her mother, that it was not safe, that she should stay away. Wherever the Syrranite sanctuary was, it would not be safe so long as the High Command was insistent that they were the ones who planted the bomb. If that were the case, the logical action would be for her to stay away from the encampment, and the fact that her dream and reality had coincided on this one instance was nothing more than a troubling coincidence...

...and was shaken from such thoughts by Syrran abruptly asking her, "Did your mother tell you the story of the IDIC?"

"It is Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination," she answered haltingly. It was an old tale with much myth surrounding it and the difference between the myths and truths quite fine. "It is said that it has no end, but that it begins at Mount Seleya with Surak's death, shortly before the end of the _Naehm T'Dahsaya – _The War of Division," she translated for the captain, who was listening with the air of one waiting for the point of the matter.

"His body died, yes, but his _katra_ was spirited away before the last battle against those who marched beneath the Raptor's wings, kept hidden from those who would return to the savage ways."

"What's a _katra?_"

"It is purportedly the essence of a Vulcan mind, able to be transferred from the body before death."

Syrran turned his examining eye upon her now. "And if I were to tell you, daughter of T'Les, that Surak's _katra_ had been found and that all those who meld with him may touch Surak's mind, what would you say?"

"I would say that, until now, I had never heard of you or your followers making outrageous claims to knowledge of Surak's true path."

"We do not lie."

"The man who makes this claim may believe he carries the _katra_ and you may believe you have felt it in his mind, but that does not refute centuries of research which have found _katras_ to be no more substantial than the gods of our ancestors."

"And is it more logical to believe the arm of a government that you know has lied to its people over the word of man who could have left you to the sehlat if his desires had been ill-placed?"

Syrran did not give her a moment to think on this - indeed, she had beheld the results of time travel at least three times with her own eyes, though the Science Academy stubbornly proclaimed such to be impossible; given time, she could have come up with a number of other examples - but continued on, "Your mother has spoken much of you. She says you are a pioneer, filled with the curiosity and the courage which has been lost to us since the High Command became responsible for more than the exploration of space."

T'Pol said nothing, and, in the silence that fell as she considered his words, the captain inserted, "I've been told Vulcans have never been explorers."

"I believe you have been told a great many things about Vulcans that are not true," the dissident leader answered, all of his attention, for the moment, focused on her. It was a... disconcerting... feeling, one that made her wish he would look anywhere but at her. She remembered her father as having the same intensity, though what memories she had of him were coloured by her child's mind; Tomel had been dead for nearly fifty-four years and his concentration rarely extended from his work...

And Syrran was speaking to her again. "You are not the first Vulcan to take an off-worlder as mate, but few have chosen to do so so openly, and fewer still while respecting our traditions. Even now, I can sense the strength of your bond to him. It is most unusual, but, then again, you are not the average Vulcan, not in these troubled days. But you _are_ as we once were, before the corruption began to destroy us from inside.

"It is fitting, that you would be the last Syrranite."

Her, become one of this man's followers? "Last?" she heard Archer ask, barely focusing on his words.

"We are on the verge of a great discovery, Jonathan Archer; one that would shake Vulcan to its core. If the High Command can be made to accept it, there will be no more need for Syrranites; if they cannot, it is likely we will be destroyed."

T'Pol's own voice sounded distant to her ears as she asked, "And if I do not wish to join you?" The storm was growing closer.

"It would be a loss to the both of us, but I would not force you. You are the lesson of the IDIC, T'Pol, child of T'Les; all diversity must be respected, in all of its combinations."

She did not know what to say. Certainly she had not come to The Forge to _join_ the Syrranites, only to discover the motive's for the bombing of Earth's embassy and, if at all possible, confirm for herself her mother's safety. But the path of Surak led to many places, many of them unexpected, and she wanted nothing more, as far as her homeworld was concerned, than the end of the High Command's duplicity...

The storm grew louder still, the winds knocking aside several of the rocks placed in front of the cave's entrance before she'd true chance to consider Syrran's words - indeed, the question would require several day's meditation before it could be properly answered. They rushed to gather the stones, but sand-fire was not forgiving of error, and shortly a lightening strike tossed the captain aside. Moving more rapidly than before, she worked with Syrran to reseal the entrance, but he too was struck down by lightening before they were finished, and then it was her alone, until, at last, her work was done and she could check on her... friends.

Syrran was closest, and she knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. It was thready but present, and she moved to to do the same with Captain Archer, only to feel a hand clasping at her, holding her in place with preternatural strength.

"You must carry it to T'Kareth."

"Carry what-?"

The commander saw Syrran's other hand rising but could not break away as he found the melding-points on her face, not in time, and her last clear thought as the man choked a hoarse, "_Tuluk tu vokau," _was that he had promised not to force her and how it too had proven to be nothing more than another lie.

* * *

a/n: Life has made it difficult to write during the week, but over half of this long chappie was written today... so I guess that makes up for it. My computer's still insisting on adding random chinese charectors into my docs, so if you see one, it was not intended. I _have_ however put much into this chappie and would appreciate any reveiws you'll give me...


	8. The Forge, Part Two: Extreme Measures

The Forge

Part Two, Extreme Measures

* * *

Coming up on the transporter pad with Captain Archer, Commander Charles Tucker the Third unsuccessfully fought a smile at the sight of T'Pol and Soval, standing close together (for Vulcans) and talking quietly in their native tongue. It was nice, despite the circumstances, to see that _someone_ from her homeworld wasn't treating her as a pariah. He'd never understand why she'd felt compelled to stay on _Enterprise_ as long as she had, especially when she hadn't particularly seemed to like humans all that uch at first, but he was glad to see the Ambassador, at least, had stopped giving her flak for doing so. It gave him hope that there might actually be some Vulcans out there who _weren't_ self-righteous bigots.

That thought upended his smile like no one's business. Trip had always held a dark view of the High Command – they were the ones, after all, who'd held back Earth's warp program, and, for a while, his own personal devil had been the director of the so-called Commission for Joint Research and Exchange – but it had surprised him how much worse T'Pol's own views of her government were. He'd been pissed more than once with the United Earth government, but he'd _never_-

Then again, the UE had never done anything quite along the lines of bombing an ally's embassy either.

"You know," he told her, taking the proffered data module from Soval, "if you'd told me this place was a such a hellhole earlier, I mightn't have thought it was such a good idea."

"It's a Vulcan desert, Mr. Tucker."

"It's also a post-nuclear wasteland left over from those pre-Surak wars you mentioned – what?" the engineer asked, catching her Look as she and Jon stepped onto the transporter pad.

"You'll never finish writing your manual on operational warp physics if you use your time researching ancient Vulcan history," she told him (which elicited a look of an entirely different sort from the captain – and, if he wasn't imagining things, the ambassador too), which was true. But searching the Vulcan database, looking up what was so special about this Forge, had been a lot easier and less frustrating than the stupid manual that no one at Jupiter Station would ever bother to read, negating his whole purpose for writing it.

Perhaps a little too smartly to be entirely business, "Yeah, well whose fault is that?" he retorted, not daring to meet her gaze for more than a moment. Instead, focused a little more intently than was strictly necessary on the unmarked data module. "Whatever this is, my guess the High Command'll throw a fit if they ever found out we had it."

"It shows the gaps in our satellite surveillance system, when beam-ins can't be detected."

Trip's smile returned somewhat darkly. In some way that would have bothered him if he'd given it much thought, it almost made his day. Still, business was business, and he inserted the module into the transporter controls, setting it to find the next gap near Vulcan's Gateway. "Right. Well, good luck. Try not to get yourselves killed."

"Always do," Jon agreed, not seeming to realize his statement had been directed mostly his first officer. Logically (to borrow a Vulcan expression), he knew she could take care of herself, probably substantially better than he could do for himself; even if she hadn't been a native of the planet below, she'd some pretty extensive training of the sort he'd never been able to think of a way to ask her about without sounding like he was accusing her of hiding things from him – which she probably was, but that wasn't the important part of the matter. Neither did it stop the feeling that, if he just tagged along, she'd be safer, though, honest to God, he knew that it would be better for everyone involved if he stayed out of the desert (for various, usually embarrassing, reasons) and in command of _Enterprise_ (because, apparently, some Vulcans actually respected him for the business with Weytahn, despite the recent mess with the Security Directorate). It was the same nagging feeling Trip got whenever he was left for too long in one of these God-awful situations with too little to do and it bothered him to no end that, even now, he couldn't shake it. Well, that would end soon enough. "Energize."

And then they were gone.

He waited a moment, just to be sure nobody got caught in the buffers, and sighed deeply. Shortly, he remembered Soval's presence and, pulling out the module, turned to hand it back to the Vulcan ambassador. "You'll probably be wanting this back."

"What back, Commander? All I see is a Starfleet data module."

"Right," he drawled, pocketing the module, sure he'd find some future use for it. That would have to come later, though. Right now he was in command. It should have been a harrowing prospect given the situation on the planet but, somehow, it was, almost, a relief, as if, with Jon and T'Pol gone, he could be more certain than he would otherwise be that everything within his power was being done if worst came to worst... "Well, I've heard nothing from Phlox, so my guess is he's not found anything new yet about the DNA. I can have the quartermaster set you up in guest quarters if you feel like staying up here while the doctor works on it. If not, I can beam you down while we're here."

"It is doubtful that, were I to return to the surface, I would be allowed to return when your doctor does find the evidence you are searching for."

Motioning in the direction of the nearest turbo-lift, "Can't say I dislike the idea, but you may well end up being stuck up here with us for some time. Imagine you were looking forward to going home for a while and getting as far away from humans as you could."

"I have lived on Earth for more than thirty years, Commander. In that time, I developed a certain affinity for your world and its people. Though you are correct in one aspect: I was indeed anticipating seeing my family. It was pleasing to see Commander T'Pol, however."

"You know, I always rather got the impression you didn't care for humans much, or T'Pol for paling around with us for as long as she has."

"On the contrary," Soval said, looking quite surprised for a Vulcan as they entered the lift and Trip pressed the button for A Deck, "I have always found her ease around different species to be quite admirable, especially from such a young woman. Since our first meeting, shortly before my posting to Earth, I have tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to convince her to to join the Foreign Ministry. It had been my hope that she would one day replace me as ambassador to your planet. If one could convince her to settle down, I feel that her skills would have made her a highly capable diplomat."

"You've obviously never seen me and her when we get into an argument then."

"You," the ambassador's eyebrow rose as the lift slowed, "are the exception in all things where Commander T'Pol is concerned."

With a snort, Trip stepped out onto the bridge, taking a quick survey to see if there was anything immediate requiring his attention. There wasn't (which he supposed must be a good thing), and so, Soval following, he joined Lt. Reed in the situation room. The tactical officer was leaning over the main systems display console, a deep, almost dark, look of intense concentration upon his face as he handed a padd to a fresh-faced young crewmen they must have taken on after the Expanse. As the young man scampered off, Commander Tucker wondered who he was and which of the dead men or women he had replaced before forcing away the thought with the question, "Any news?"

"Sensors aren't picking up any unusual activity near the beam-in point – at least, what the sensors _can_ pick up through the geomagnetic interference, – so we can only assume that the captain and Commander T'Pol weren't detected by the Vulcans. Now we just have to hope we can keep the High Command distracted long enough to keep them from going after the Syrranites."

"I think our being in orbit is going to be enough to keep them from doing anything stupid – at least, for a while. Now that they've claimed the bombing was an internal matter, they want us out of their system as soon as possible."

"Can we claim some sort of malfunction, something that would keep us here?"

"Nothing serious enough to warrant staying in orbit without actually damaging one of the ship's systems, and I don't want to have to do that in case we have to make a quick break after the cap'n and T'Pol make it to the extraction point."

"We'll have to think of something," Mal told him, which was entirely true but maddeningly obvious. "We've no idea how long it will take them to get to the Syrranites, let alone convince them to help us."

"T'Pol thinks they'll be more then willing to cooperate, provided we do everything peacefully."

"Bloody Vulcan pacifism. I frankly can't see a way out of this that _doesn't_ involve a fire-fight – no offence meant, Ambassador."

"There is no offence where none is taken, Lieutenant. The situation will most likely come to violent culmination if your captain and first officer cannot return quickly enough. However, Commander T'Pol will likely be able to elicit the Syrranites' aide quickly; any delay they may have will likely be caused by sand-fire storms, which are quite strong at this time of year."

Groaning, "Electrical sandstorms, geomagnetic instabilities bad enough to knock out anything you can't power by hand, and temperatures in the shade in excess of forty-five degrees Celsius. I understand they wanted to keep hidden, but couldn't the Syrranites chosen a place _less_ likely to kill them?"

"The Forge has many challenges, but it is as sacred to Vulcans as Mount Seleya," Soval explained. "That alone gives the location much importance to the Syrranites, though undoubtedly there are other reasons, unknown to us, why this place was chosen as their sanctuary. As for The Forge itself, any skilled traveller would be able to traverse the desert, provided he or she was alert and prepared. Your mate is quite competent, Commander; I would not worry over-much for their safety."

Trip caught Malcolm's snort at the final comment. Though he and T'Pol made no attempt to hide their relationship during off-duty hours, no one had ever actually come out and said anything about it either – well, excepting Jon, but that was different. Jon hadn't used the distinctly unambiguous word 'mates' to describe them either. He was sure he'd turned as red as the stripes on his uniform before he'd recovered enough from the shock of it to nod in agreement. One of these days someone – certainly not him – was going to have to explain to the Vulcans why 'mate' was an inappropriate term to refer to human couples by...

..but maybe not Vulcan ones. From what he could gather, Vulcans only married for one reason: to have kids. Maybe there were other reasons, but from the gist of T'Pol's discussion with her mom, that seemed to be the main one...

But now was not the time to get caught up in those sorts of thoughts and Trip looked up to discover his tactical officer had saved him, turning the discussion back towards its purpose, which was trying to figure out who really bombed the embassy.

"...over the security footage and it's clear that the guard recognized whoever it was, so I've been trying to compare a list of frequent visitors to the Embassy against who we know was there that day."

"Have you had any luck?" Commander Tucker asked, forcing himself to focus on the moment. No matter how tangled his personal life was in the events of this day, he could not think of them now. T'Pol would not want him to.

"To be honest, no. Most people at the Embassy were regulars and Corporal Askwith had held his post for seventeen months. Only eight or nine people that day were first time visitors. And, since we can't see the bomber's face, that leaves us a total of two hundred and eight possible suspects."

"Damn. The Doc say anything about when he expects this corporal to be able to talk to us?"

"That's the thing, Commander: Phlox doesn't expect him to recover."

After a moment, in which all three stared at the display on the console, which was paused at a still-frame from the security footage, showing the back of a Vulcan-robed head, "At least we know one thing."

"That it's a Vulcan? I doubt it; it could be an Andorian under those robes for all we know from the angles of the video feeds."

"No, not that – but whoever it was was either incredibly lucky or knew what they were doing to a T. There can't be many people on Vulcan," he continued slowly, not at all liking the direction of his thinking, "with the kind of training to get a bomb into an embassy without setting off any alarms or being picked up by any of the cameras."

"You're thinking someone from the Vulcan Security Directorate did this?" utterly aghast. "Why would the _Vulcan government_ want to bomb their ally's embassy?"

"I wish I knew, Mal. It might've been a dissident who _used_ to be a member of the Security Directorate, but a thing like this has to have taken more planning than even a single Vulcan could do – and, if the Security Directorate is anything like secret police on old Earth were, I'm betting there are very few former members who are still around and able to do something like this." Trip looked up at the Ambassador, who did not disagree with his assessment. "So it _is_ a conspiracy. Damn."

* * *

"Phlox tells me that what I'm about to ask you is incredibly rude, highly illegal, and quite possibly immoral, but I'm going to ask you it anyway."

From a meditative posture in the middle of the guest quarters he'd been assigned, Soval asked without moving, "And what question could be so necessary as to require you behave in such a matter?"

"The DNA on the bomb was planted: it was T'Pau's alright, but the sample was about thirty years old."

"You can prove this?"

"Phlox can," the commander assured, taking a seat opposite the ambassador on the floor. He held a padd in one hand and tapped it against the other, only realizing this motion when Soval narrowed his eyes slightly at the the sound. With an apologetic grin that quickly faded as he continued, "Sorry. Just kinda worried. I don't know what kinda pull it takes to mess with DNA records on Vulcan, but I'm guessing it's a hell of a lot. Which means we're looking at governmental bigwigs and their henchmen, and that means this has to go farther than just the Syrranites."

"While it is a logical conclusion that the High Command would have to have been complacent in an act of this magnitude, you have just told me that the only proof we have is doctored evidence that eliminates the only suspect we had," Soval noted, features schooled as a hint of raw emotion crept into his eyes. In the flickering of candlelight that was the room's only illumination, it made Trip remember the brief glimpse he'd had of T'Pol after her exposure to trellium-D aboard her old posting, the _Seleya_.

"The one piece of evidence we have left that the Security Directorate – or the Syrranites – or whoever – _hasn't_ tampered with is the guard."

"Who, if I remember Doctor Phlox's prognosis correctly, is comatose, brain-damaged, and not expected to survive the return journey."

"Which brings me to my question: I know there aren't a lot of Vulcans who can do this sort of thing, but you've got to know _someone_ who might be able to preform a mind-meld on Corporal Askwith and find out who he saw. It's the only proof we have."

"Telepathic proof is inadmissible in courts."

"Well, I don't see us as having many other options."

"I imagine Commander T'Pol has told you very little of mind-melds if you believe one to be the best course of action here. They are dangerous under the best of circumstances and, with a human, may well be impossible." Soval gave him a look he could not read, but assumed was some sort of query based off of what he'd discovered over time about Vulcans and their eyebrows. "Unless...?"

Ah. It _was_ a question. "She's not told me a thing about them. Left behind the stuff she had on the Syrranites, though, and I ran it through the translation matrix – figured I might as well learn something about the people we're trying to keep from persecution," that, and it was either do something quasi-useful like that or work on the warp manual T'Pol had got him started on. It wasn't particularly difficult (though explaining every step of his reasoning was becoming quite tedious), just boring and becoming more and more of a chore.

Ever since he'd made the mistake of telling R&D he was working on it in one of his frequent exchanges with them (they were still insisting he transfer to _Columbia, _at least long enough to get the ship up and running), they'd been riding him to get it finished. It had taken a while, but the funding that had been approved in the immediate aftermath of the Xindi attack had finally made its way to Starfleet's Department of Ships – the brass there, at least, saw the sense in having more than one operational NX-class in fleet – and they wanted _Columbia_ out of spacedock by the end of the year, whether she had a capable engineering team to man her or not. Now, as soon as he was done it with the manual, Kelby or Williams _should_ be perfectly able to get the warp core working without his presence being needed, but the brass was finally beginning to tire of the months-long delay on the NX-02 and, with keel being laid down for the NX-03 _Challenger_ this very week, his writing speed was just not fitting into their breakneck schedule, which had _Challenger _in space by this time next year and the NX-04 _Discovery_ in the works by '56.

Needless to say, Trip _should_ be doing everything in his power to finish the manual if he wanted to stay on _Enterprise_ – which he most certainly did – but the pressure of it had led him to finish nearly every project he'd ever started on the ship except for the damn manual.

And now he'd resorted to reading translations of quasi-religious Vulcan texts to keep from working on it. "Anyway," Trip continued, "T'Pol'd flagged the part on mind-melds, though, and it's either this or we hope she and Jon find all the proof we need on the surface." He'd a vague idea how dangerous they could be, though he'd frankly found that most of it had made about as much sense to him as Earth religions must to Vulcans. "And even if they do, I'm thinking we should try this anyway, if you can find someone who can do it, 'cause politicians are the same regardless of species: they're not going to do something this risky without the biggest pay-off they can get, and the sooner we find out who exactly it is and what exactly it is they're playing at, the better for all of us."

The ambassador's pensive look remained as he rose (Trip, somewhat less gracefully, quickly stood as well), with a sigh, "Forty-three lives have already been lost to these political machinations..."

"Then you know someone who'd do it? 'Cause Lieutenant Reed and I have been working on a plan to get them off the surface-"

"That will not be necessary: I can preform the meld."

* * *

"You know, if I had known you'd be putting your job at risk to do this, I wouldn't have asked you to do the meld. Well, I wouldn't have pushed you so hard at least. No offence, but I'd rather have you as ambassador to Earth than someone as dedicated to keeping humans back as the last guy."

"We are all bound by our duties. Solkar was only doing his."

"Duty or no, you can't go back down there."

"I am not a fool, Commander. V'Las was involved with the attack on your embassy. He is responsible for blaming it on the Syrranites."

"Then why are you turning yourself over to him? Now that he knows we know Stel placed the bomb, he's probably already had him fingered as a Syrranite, if not outright disappeared."

"It's the only chance we have to reach the rest of the High Command."

Pausing in front of the airlock, Trip asked, "What if they're all in on it?" He held off pressing the door controls for a moment, hoping against hope he could convince Soval to stay, sure that if if he allowed the ambassador to return to the planet, he'd be disappeared as untold other dissenters had been. But, as the silence dragged, the engineer realized that asking Soval to stay was pointless. Vulcans were bound by their duties and expecting them to behave otherwise was stupid considering everything he knew about them. Finally pressing the airlock controls, "If you really want humans and Vulcans to work together someday, you might start thinking about trusting us."

Already entering the airlock, Soval paused for a moment and turned. "It is probable that the majority of the High Command is loyal to the administrator. He has held various postings throughout the ministry over the last century-and-a-half and has likely filled the other directorates with his followers as well – Subaltern Sopel, who I believe you are familiar with, is one of his mate's nephews and wields far more power than is usual for one of his rank – though Minister Kuvak, of the Science Directorate, will likely be receptive to my arguments, and, if I can convince him, his voice should be enough to keep V'Las from the most extreme actions.

"V'Las, however, is not the only one with influence. My elder son, Solan, is an altern in the Security Directorate and should be able to confirm my suspicions on the ultimate goal behind the bombing. With what information I hope to receive from him, we shall be able to derail the administrator's plans. Peace and long life, Commander." And with that, the ambassador pressed the door controls on the other side of the airlock.

"Well I'll be damned," Trip swore, shaking his head as he made for the bridge, almost forgetting the seriousness which had brought on the situation. But only almost. Something was going terribly wrong on Vulcan and T'Pol was caught up in the middle of it; no matter what else happened, he'd not be able to forget that.

* * *

a/n: a shorter chapter, in large part preperation for later ones. But don't worry, Trip _should_ have more to do in the next couple chappies. Promises to be another crazy week though, and so there may be some delay in getting "Awakening" out, especially if I have another insane I-know-what-I-want-but-not-how-to-put-it bout of writer's block like I did today. But hopefully not. Reveiws may make it come out quicker **(hint, hint, hint)**; they make me happy, anyway.

BTW, "Chrysalis" was the 5th episode of season 7 of _DS9_. "Extreme Measures" was 23rd in that same season.


	9. Awakening, Part One: Necessary Evil

Awakening

Part One, Necessary Evil

* * *

"Gardner's insane."

Lt. Reed looked at him, confused, clearly not having expected such a declaration to be the reason he was called into the captain's ready room – now occupied by Commander Tucker and probably half of _Enterprise_'s compliment of padds – at the start of his shift. "Sir?"

Yawning, "Admiral Gardner's been handing out orders like party favours." It had taken all night to get through most of them and access the damage they'd done, but Trip knew he wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway, not with everything going on down on the planet. With every hour that passed with no word from the captain, T'Pol, or Soval, the more he certain he became that something had gone horribly wrong on the planet, and that one or all had been captured by V'Las' agents and-

And he was trying his hardest not to think about that. They were monitoring all transmissions coming from the planet, but had heard nothing that might indicate that they had been discovered, captured, or otherwise harmed – at least, that's what the young ensign who covered the comm station third-shift had told him. Maybe Hoshi would find something she'd missed, but he doubted it. Starfleet's best and brightest were on _Enterprise, _their first deep space ship, and it was that reasoning that had likely been behind Gardner's orders. Hell, the plan (or something along its lines) had probably been on the books since the NX-program had started.

"What kind of orders?" Mal asked, still standing stiffly at attention by the door.

"The kind," Trip started shuffling through the padds, frowned at one, set it aside, and continued until he found a second, holding this one out to his friend, who took it grimly, as if it might contain news of another bombing, "that makes all our lives more difficult: they're taking your second, Lt. Foster, for one, and putting him in charge of tactical on _Columbia_."

Looking distinctly relieved but still far from happy, Mal took the seat across from him as Trip continued to look for the other padds he needed, lost somewhere in the mess of transmissions that had been routed his way during the night – which, since Gardner knew nothing about Jon and T'Pol being on Vulcan and wasn't to know, for fear he'd tell the High Command, included everything the captain and first officer would normally deal with as well as his own business, and amounted to more paperwork than could be legal. "What about Lt. Commander Lyster? They've had her slated for for that post since they laid down keel on _Columbia_. She's even been handling it's security while it's been in spacedock. Foster's a good officer, but he's not Lyster."

"Well, for one, Foster has deep space experience and, two, Lyster requested the reassignment. Apparently," Trip indicated the padd he'd just handed him, which had all the relevant details, "she's pregnant and doesn't want to leave the kid with her parents while she's in space. Can't say I blame her; I wouldn't want to be away from home for months or years at a time if I'd a kid either.

"Anyway," Trip fought another yawn as looked and failed to find the coffee he knew was in here... somewhere beneath all the padds, which seemed to multiply every time he looked at them, "Gardner's sending Crewmen Jeancy and Coriano with him, so you'll need to pick replacements from the recs he sent along. Seems he wants as many of the senior officers for the new NX's they're building to have time out of solar system, 'cause it's happening in every department. They're taking _half,_" (half! They deserved their places on the _Columbia_, certainly, but they'd be difficult to replace), "of my second-shift team, _and, _when we get back to Earth to pick up the equipment for those sub-quantum transporter tests, they're transferring Lt. Commander Kelby aboard to learn the ins-and-outs of the warp drive before sending him to _Columbia_."

"That doesn't sound too bad." And it really wasn't. Kelby was a decent guy – not perfect by any means, but good enough person and a hell of an engineer, "Looks like we're loosing less than a third of the crew in total, mostly from second-shift."

"Yeah, well, after a month or two of Kelby shadowing my every move, they're going to send _me_ to _Columbia_ to get her engines in working order, leaving Kelby in charge here, and, after the brass is sure the _Columbia_'s not going to stall out on them in the middle of a rescue mission, they'll _eventually_ switch us back..." And, knowing the brass, who'd waited over a year before pushing the _Columbia_ issue in the first place, that could be a long time, with no promise they wouldn't do the same when it came time for _Challenger_ and _Discovery_'s engines to be shaken down. "Guess they don't have any other choice, since the boys at Santa Clara who would have normally handled the engines were all killed in the Xindi attack, but, God..." Trip forced himself to trail off. The brass had every right to want their ships to run properly. Though why they couldn't have just-

Without particular inflection, the tactical officer asked while continuing to study the padd in his hand, "Commander T'Pol's not going to be happy about that."

"No," Trip replied carefully, "I don't suppose she's going to be."

For a moment, Malcolm said nothing, nodding slightly as he examined the orders Gardner had sent. Then, no longer able to contain himself, he cracked large, truly genuine smile. "It's about bloody time, that's all I can say." Standing, still smiling, "I should pass the good news onto Foster before getting back to the investigation. I've been trying to piece together the Syrranites' actions over the past couple of years, trying to figure out why the High Command would want to blame them for the bombing so badly, but it's difficult work."

Now grinning himself, though Mal's had tightened at the mention of the investigation, "Before you go, one more thing." Trip held out yet another padd, "It's long overdue and won't be official 'til the captain can sign off on it, but you're finally getting that promotion." A lot of promotions were coming through. They were the one part of the deluge of orders coming from Gardner's office that didn't seem so bad. And, while he probably should have opened the discussion with that, the look on Mal's face right now was just too priceless. "Con-"

"Bridge to Commander Tucker."

Still laughing as he pressed the comm, "Yes, Ensign?"

"We're receiving a transmission from Ambassador Soval; he's requesting permission to beam aboard immediately."

"Get someone to the transporter bay right away. I'll meet them there."

* * *

"The situation is worse than we previously thought," Soval said, catching Trip's eye the moment he materialized on the transporter pad. For a Vulcan, he looked rather harried and, when taken with his injuries from the bombing, made him look more like the victim of a mugging than a returning dignitary. Harried or not, when he stepped off the pad, he was all business, practically demanding to know if they'd made contact with Jon or T'Pol.

They went down a level after reaching the lift, heading for the conference room rather than the bridge, where they could talk privately without the mess of padds to contend with. "We can't reach them and they can't reach us. Best we can tell, the geomagnetic interference is getting worse. Don't know if that's a good or bad thing, to be honest."

"Considering recent developments, it is fortuitous. Our equipment is more sensitive than your scanners and, as such, will be more gravely affected by the sandstorms. That will make their job that much more difficult and may purchase us the time we will need."

"Time we need for what? What happened on the surface?"

"The High Command terminated my position within the Foreign Ministry-"

Having been about to take at seat at the conference table, Trip found himself standing up again as he raged, "They threw you out!" He'd expected something like that, yes, but that still didn't make it any less unbelievable. Soval had been the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth for at least as long as Trip had been alive and it was almost surreal, even amidst everything else, to think that would no longer be the case.

"I was allowed to leave under my own power," the ambassador replied, slightly raising his brow, as he took his own seat, "but, essentially, yes."

"So, if it's worse than we thought," he forced himself to temper his voice, though the nervous energy that had kept him standing now threatened to start him pacing the room, "and we already thought it was fubar, how bad is get going to get?"

"V'Las is determined to wipe of the Syrranites. Even as we speak, ships are being readied, preparing to destroy their encampment in the Forge as soon as the as it can be located."

Stopping in his tracks, "But T'Pol and the captain-"

"Are in grave danger, yes, but that is not the worst of it."

"V'Las had forty-three people killed already for his schemes and is planning on doing the same to the Syrranites, however many they are. How much worse can it get?" There were probably a hundred Syrranites in the Forge, maybe a little less, maybe a few more. They wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of pinning the embassy bombing on the Syrranites unless they wanted public support for taking out dissidents. That in and of itself could not be the endgame. There was no end in ridding Vulcan of the Syrranites at this time unless it was deathly important to the High Command that there _be_ no more dissidents. But why? Why would the High Command want to get rid of them now?

"The High Command is planning to attack Andoria."

That would do it. "But, wait, Vulcan and Andoria signed a peace treaty two years ago – _Enterprise_ was there. Captain Archer helped negotiate it." He pulled out the nearest chair and sank into it. An interstellar war would devastate Vulcan and Andoria – and their allies, including Earth. World War Three had had cost Earth six hundred million lives, double that if you counted civilian deaths from the nuclear fallout. That had been the last pre-warp war. The Xindi attack had been Earth's first taste of interstellar warfare and, in less than an hour, their probe had taken seven million lives, but that had, in the end, been only a taste. A long drawn out war, all sides armed with warp drives and phase cannons and spatial torpedoes... Trip couldn't even imagine it.

Words as grim as Trip's thoughts, Soval explained, "Vulcan Intelligence claims the Andorians are developing a weapon based on Xindi technology."

"But you don't believe it." No one would. The Andorians were never able to get their hands on the prototype – and, even if they had, they'd no reason to attack Vulcan that he knew of. Trip dug through his memory, trying to recall anything that might make the High Command believe they were under immanent threat from Andoria. But there was nothing.

"As I have told you, my elder son works for the Ministry of Security. He was able to attain for me copies of the documents V'Las used to persuade the High Command to launch a pre-emptive strike and none of them appear to hold up to intense scrutiny any more than the evidence implicating T'Pau in the Embassy bombing.

"But there is more-"

"More!" he was still trying to wrap his head around an interstellar war (while the niggling thought remained that, at this very moment, T'Pol and Jon were in danger on the planet and there was no way to get to warm them, or extract them, or even reassure himself that they were safe. The best he could hope for was that, while _Enterprise_ was in orbit, V'Las wouldn't risk launching his attack. But _Enterprise_ could only stay in orbit for so long when the planet below wanted them gone and, if the contacted Gardner...).

"V'Las undoubtedly knows of the close relations Starfleet and _Enterprise_ in particular maintain with the Andorian Imperial Guard. There are also many on your planet who feel that, rather than keep your species from destroying itself as you developed your warp capabilities – as many races have, – we held you back, intentionally keeping your vulnerable for an eventuality such as the Xindi probe. To this end, it is logical to assume that, were Vulcan to make a pre-emptive strike against Andoria, you would side with your newer allies."

"And Vulcan and Andoria are evenly enough matched that whichever side Earth joins will have the advantage," Commander Tucker sighed in realization, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to concentrate on the problem he could actually do something about. "So V'Las is trying to make sure that Earth sides with Vulcan in this war he's planning. That's why his people bombed Earth's Embassy – though, if they're blaming the Syrranites for that, I don't see how that exactly translates into enough anti-Andorian sentiment to see Starfleet enter its first interstellar war on Vulcan's side."

Something dark had been growing in Soval's eyes as he'd laid out his government's plan, which would see hundreds of thousands dead before the end if allowed pass. It flashed as he pulled a Vulcan-style data module from his robes, as did one the most extreme looks of disquiet Trip had ever seen on a Vulcan, but both passed by the time the engineer had the module in hand. "This is a copy of the documents the Security Directorate claims to have discovered in Major Stel's possession. Amongst them are a number of fragments of correspondence purportedly between Stel and the one who encouraged him to plant the bomb in the embassy and provide him with the means to do so. Though this mentor is never named directly in any of the fragments, there are a number of indicators to suggest that this person is both a Syrranite and on good terms with the Andorians. There is even suggestion that this as-yet unnamed mentor was funnelling weaponry and equipment for more bombs from the Imperial Guard to the major in preparation for a coup."

"The Syrranites are known to be pacifists, though. I don't know about on Vulcan, but, on Earth, coups rarely go down without bloodshed."

"It does not matter that the Syrranites do not condone violence; the High Command has claimed Major Stel is one of their number and, regardless of its truth, such sets the stage for them to claim acts of violence – actual and planned – on their number."

"Still, accusations that Andorians are funding Vulcan dissidents still isn't going to get Starfleet fighting a war."

"But Major Stel's supposed mentor will."

Looking up from the data module, which he'd been rolling through his fingers, trying unsuccessfully to think of a way to get Jon and T'Pol off the surface. "I thought you said that these documents don't name who this mentor of his is supposed to be."

"They do not, but Stel is a fanatic. He believes fervently in Administrator V'Las and his cause and will do anything to further it. This includes naming innocents as his conspirators. Solan was able to determine, before he was discovered, the identity of the one the Vulcan Security Directorate intends to name as the mastermind behind the embassy bombing."

"Why," he asked slowly, feeling as though someone had just walked over his grave, "do I get the feeling you're about to tell me they're calling you this mastermind?" The ambassador _did_ know how to preform a mind-meld and had to be on some sort of good terms with the Andorians after negotiating that treaty... a case probably could be made if one planted the right evidence... But, as they'd already determined, the Security Directorate had no problems with manufacturing evidence.

Honestly surprised, "Me? I hardly have the required skill-set for such an action. Blaming me would likely not illicit V'Las' desired action from Starfleet either."

"Than who?"

"Commander T'Pol, naturally."

Almost choking, "T'Pol?"

"Her original assignment to _Enterprise_ was only intended to last two weeks. Instead, the commander stayed for nearly two years before resigning her post with the High Command in favour of remaining aboard this ship while it traversed the Delphic Expanse. She was serving on _Enterprise_ when the Andorians attempted to steal the Xindi prototype."

"She and Shran-" No one could accuse them of being on good terms. Hell, the best one could say of them was that they refrained from open hostilities in front of the crew.

"That does not matter. The truth does not matter to these people. All that matters is advancing their agenda. Commander T'Pol left the High Command for Starfleet – one of their worst fears. She was on Vulcan and in the heart of Earth's embassy less than three months ago-"

"Seeking political asylum-"

"Again, Commander, the truth does not matter. The High Command will make people see what they want people to see. It is what they have done for centuries and what they will continue to do if we are unable to stop them from carrying out their attack."

But all he could focus on was, "And they say T'Pol is behind this?" The concept burned at him, blinded him momentarily from the thought of the war for which this claim was but a symptom – but if they were willing to kill innocents for their politics, what would the High Command do to its prisoners?

"By blaming a member of Starfleet for the bombing, undoubtedly V'Las hopes your government will feel enough guilt that they will side with Vulcan in their war."

"But T'Pol would never-"

"She is a Syrranite and served in the Security Directorate for seventeen years. That is all the proof the High Command will need, Commander Tucker. I have asked Solan to go into the Forge to warn T'Pol and your captain, but V'Las does not know that either are on the surface."

"And," slowly, forcedly, painfully, "we've a war to prevent."

* * *

The lift gave him too much time to think.

He wanted to ask Soval about T'Pol's time in the Security Directorate, though it should be the least of his concerns at the moment. It had taken him three years to get her to tell him her age; admitting she'd worked for a place like the Security Directorate would probably have taken another three and was unimportant in the long run, but...

He wanted to know if Solan could be trusted, if he wasn't playing his father like the High Command was playing everyone else, or if he wasn't be played by someone else. It was entirely possible that someone would have guessed Ambassador Soval would go to his son for such restricted information. It was possible that none of what Soval had risked his life to bring them was true, and they were being sent on a wild goose chase so the High Command could begin their real plan...

He wanted to figure out what V'Las could possibly gain from a war that would destroy Vulcan and, if it lasted long enough, could destabilize the entire quadrant – what anyone, short of an arms dealer, could gain.

And the he was on the bridge, and the time for musings was over. "Set a course for Andoria."

"Andoria?" Lt. Reed echoed from the situation room, moving so quickly that he was already tactical when he next asked, "But the captain and T'Pol-?"

"We can't do them any good here," Trip insisted, trying not to sound as if he was trying to convince himself as much as the rest of the bridge staff as they readied _Enterprise _to leave orbit. "I'll explain on the way."

* * *

a/n: Well, I said that the last chapter was mainly lining up the dominoes. Here some of them start to fall. Not much different, in many ways, than the acutal episode, but in others... In part I wanted to solve the why-hasn't-anyone-gotten-promoted-ever problem, in part wanted to get Trip on _Columbia_ for a semi-decent reason... and surprised even myself by the level of conspiracy-uncovering... That and have found that my job situation being up in the air makes it quite difficult to write, even when it gives me all the time in the world to do so. It's quite annoying.

insert impassioned plea for reviews here -aadarshinah


	10. Awakening, Part Two: Covenant

Awakening

Part Two, Covenant

* * *

"T'Pol, are you alright?"

She heard his words, but they barely registered. It had been approximately zero point four three Earth hours since she'd rose from her (admittedly agitated) attempts at meditation and begun pacing. Her walk was brisk, as was the dismissive gesture she sent in her captain's direction.

She knew it was impolitic to ignore him, but, at this juncture, she could do no other. The world was rapidly spinning out of her control and nothing was keeping her grounded in the here and now beyond the certain, repetitive movement of her feet as she traced a the length of the their cell. The fact that a part of her mind that (illogically, traitorously, contrarily) did not appear to be hers kept telling her that the cell had not been built with the intention of housing prisoners but rather Vulcans who were emotionally compromised did not help matters either.

_War is taking its toll. Vulcan is tearing itself apart,_ that same part of her mind told her. It sounded vaguely like her father's voice, what she could remember of it, though she could never, for the life of her, remember him talking of war or politics or even anything other than his work. Had she not logically known otherwise, she would have doubted that Tomel had known a world outside his study of infectious diseases had existed. Perhaps it only seemed that way to here when she was young and, when she was older, she would have seen more to her father than this, but she was twelve standard years when the _Rok-Tor_ and everyone on it had been destroyed and so never learned more of her father than his single-minded obsession with his profession.

"Vulcan is not at war," she told herself, feeling quite shaken that part of her consciousness had, at this juncture, apparently decided to adopt her father's voice. Perhaps, at another time, the strangeness of it would not have bothered her so, but, atop of everything else, the thought caused emotions she did not wish to analyse to writhe and toss inside their cage. "Our teachings are corrupted, our leaders contemptible, and our society a shadow of what it once was, but we are _not_ at war."

_You fail to convince even yourself, child. The only logical reason to go to such extremes to rid oneself of pacifists is when one is on the cusp of war. When the populace learns the truth of the bombing of your embassy, as they inevitably will, they will not sit idly by and allow their government to continue a war started through subterfuge and murder, it will be a return to the troubled times of before. Perhaps it will not be the violence of the time you call _Naehm T'Dahsaya, _but society will be shaken nonetheless. And, perhaps, not for the better_.

There was something entirely disconcerting about one part of her mind addressing another part as "child," even if it sounded like her father. She wished it would not. She wanted the voice and all the subtle suggestions that had come with it – the ones she'd only realized weren't quite her own after she'd followed them to T'Kareth – to stop.

"T'Pol, should I call someone? You said Syrran tried to meld with you before he died and you've not been acting yourself since the sand-fire storm ended... I don't know what's going on, but something needs to be done. Something obviously went wrong..."

His words seemed fainter, more distant, and there seemed to be a white wash of light on the walls that was not in keeping with the late hour she knew it to be. Turning her head, she turned to glance out the barred window to assure herself that, despite everything else, her sense of time was still functioning. But, looking through the now bar-less window, it was not the black and unforgiving Vulcan night she saw, but the city of Shi'Kahr, brilliant and beautiful in the distance. It should have been too far for even her eyes to make out the city at the edge of The Forge, her people's centre of government. The structures there were not as tall as they appeared to her then, nor were they made of material that caught the light of the star humans called 40 Eridani in quite that way... (For a moment she reflected on the illogicality of human names. Her home star, from Earth, was part of the constellation they called Eridanus after a river in one of their European countries. A desert planet around a "river" star. It amused her in the same private way her mate's name – or, rather, the human instance on _numbering_ their children, which she has rarely seen elsewhere in the galaxy – and her captain's fondness for water polo amused her)...

In that moment, she also thought the city was more inviting than it had ever been in real life. There was something hard and bitter about that, T'Pol realized; something that she shouldn't allow herself to think, because it was the harbinger of more insidious thoughts, such as how she'd always been more comfortable on _Enterprise_ than any Vulcan ship, despite the fact it had been designed with humans in mind...

In the next, there was a brilliant, flavescent light, and the city was burning.

_You're seeing the past through my eyes, Commander,_ the voice insisted.

She studiously ignored both it and the blinding light that seemed to fill the room, only dimly she had stopped pacing and that Captain Archer had come to stand in front of her. She was hallucinating, that was the only thing for it. T'Pol increased her stride. It was the _pa'nar_ or the trellium – one of the awful, unforgivable, terrible things she had done to herself was coming back to haunt her.

_There is strong-willed, and then there's stubborn, child. _A pause, and then, _I apologize. _

The strangeness of that comment drew her up short. "Apologize?" Pieces of the puzzle began to shift and bits of information and memories (both hers and otherwise) slipped into place.

_The culture in which you were raised is not the one I helped to create. Our people have strayed and someone must restore them to the path. _

"But Syrran is dead."

Dimly, T'Pol heard other voices addressing her, the faint touch of a hand on her arm, but could not be certain if they were real or if it was the man, dressed in traditional Vulcan robes and standing patiently near the window, that was truly there. It was more logical to expect a Vulcan elder in a sanctuary than a dusty human starship captain who blamed her people for his father's failures. But Syrran had spoke of _katras_ before he died and the only Vulcans likely to be at T'Kareth would be fairly young – her mother would be the oldest among them – and dress less traditionally.

"You are Surak. Syrran carried your _katra_."

_You are as we once were, before the corruption began to destroy us from inside_, the voice – Surak's _katra_ – repeats Syrran's words. Maybe they had never been Syrran's. _All diversity must be respected, in all of its combinations – this has long been forgotten by those in power, who twist their words to create a shroud of logic for what is neither logical nor moral. But you have separated yourself from our people and see what they no longer can: our imminent destruction, by our own hands. We cannot let what happened to the Vulcans of my time take place again. _

"You are mistaken," she tries, knowing even as she does that the voice – the _katra_ – will not rest until she has agreed to do what he wishes. What Surak wishes. That alone should have been enough of a reason to carry out whatever it was his _katra_ wanted, but she knows that, whatever he wants, it's not for her. He was talking revolution and, despite her earlier words to Captain Archer, she didn't want any part in it.

She was T'Pol of Starfleet now – perhaps even of United Earth, if pressed, though her attachment to that particular planet was more for the sake of her human crewmates – and of Vulcan no longer. That T'Pol was forced to silence and submission, able to offer an opinion only when it coincided with that of the majority. That T'Pol had joined the Security Directorate to learn the truths they hid from her, and left it when it had become to difficult to hide her displeasure in her superiors, dissembling with a story of emotional turmoil that they were all-too-willing to believe. That T'Pol had joined the High Command to explore new worlds, and left because the humans she'd been assigned to actually explored, albeit with rather less caution than she'd have wished. The T'Pol she has become was not a revolutionary, but an ex-patriot who found herself comfortable in the land of her exile.

_You must find what has been lost. The _Kir'Shara _will-_

Reality asserted itself as she felt a hypospray placed against her neck, and then both it and the white-washed echo of the _katra_ faded, and all was mercifully black.

* * *

"...should not be unconscious for much longer. There is little extant information on _val'reth_ – those who bear the _katras_ of another," a young woman's words washed over her as T'Pol felt herself returning to consciousness. "From what we understand and Syrran's own impressions, the _val'reth_ would ideally have had training so as to be equipped to handle the mental strain of a _katra_. Syrran also postulated that there might be an issue of compatibility between the _katra_ and its _val'reth_, which may be the reason Commander T'Pol reacted so strongly to the presence of Surak's _katra._ It could well be that she is an exceptionally high compatible host for the _katra_ and found it difficult to differentiate between her own _katra_ and Surak's or else is exceptionally incompatible and rejecting the _katra – _I am afraid we cannot be certain, given our level of knowledge of the subject."

"I thought you said the hypospray should have brought her back to reality."

"As I said, the commander should not be unconscious for much longer. The serum was designed with the intents of interrupting the neural pathways, allowing the primary personality to resurface. If she has not woken within the hour, I will send for our healer." Voice became harder, more determined, though still sounded young for a Vulcan. The girl continued before T'Pol's mind (unusually sluggish and unresponsive) can identify the speaker, though she knows the voice is one she's encountered before. "Appreciative as we are that you have returned Surak's _katra_ to us, you have yet to adequately explain your reason for being in The Forge."

"And we told you: we're looking for the people responsible for bombing Earth's embassy."

"In the middle of a vast wasteland?"

"T'Pol thought you might know something about it."

"I have not left this desert in over two years. Many here have remained such even longer. As you have noticed, technology does not function here. How do you expect us to know such details about current events?"

"I'm sure you have your ways," the second voice says, tone accusing. T'Pol feels she should know that voice as well, which, as if realizing his anger was unwarranted, softens slightly as it admits, "Look, I get that you're angry at us for putting you in danger, but we weren't followed and certainly didn't have any idea where this place was before we got here. The High Command is blaming the Syrranites for the bombing and T'Pol seems to think that it's just a ploy for something greater."

"And what do you think, Captain Jonathan Archer?"

"I think that T'Pol usually knows what she's talking about."

There was a pause and then, "I am pleased to discover that your species is not as intractable as I have been led to believe, and do grieve for the loss of so many in Syrran's name, but do not know what you hope to find here. Administrator V'Las has been attempting to suppress us for decades. In all likelihood, that is all the motivation there is for the High Command's actions, at least so far as it concerns Earth – and I believe your commander is starting to wake."

T'Pol opened her eyes to discover she was still in the cell with the captain sitting at the end of the shelf she'd been placed on and the girl – T'Pau, she remembers quickly, disturbed to discover she had, however momentarily, forgotten – standing stiffly in the middle of the room. The door to the room was slightly ajar and, through the barred windows, the dawn was not yet beginning to break. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Half-an-hour," Archer told her, quickly standing, while, at the same moment, T'Pau responded, "Twenty-three point four minutes."

"Good." The commander forced herself into a sitting position. "You should give the order to evacuate immediately. The High Command may not have followed us, but they would not have ordered the bombing of the embassy with the intention of blaming it on the Syrranites if they did not have a fairly clear idea where you can be found."

"And if you are wrong? The Forge is unforgiving."

"Neither are thermobaric bombs, T'Pau."

The girl stiffened, as if she'd just heard something unexpectedly rude. "Do you speak as Commander T'Pol of Starfleet or T'Pol, bearer of the _katra_ of Surak?"

T'Pol found herself understanding the human desire to roll one's eyes at this comment. "I speak as one who does not want to see you or any of the Syrranites harmed, _nu'ri ko-kai_-" She blinked, surprised at her choice of words. "I apologize, I don't know why I said that."

"Your apology is unnecessary. I will give the order," the girl said and left the room slightly more quickly than was necessary, letting the door clatter shut behind her.

The captain, standing in the centre of the room with a baffled expression on his sunburned and dirt-streaked face, "What was _that_ about?"

"Most Vulcans find my joining Starfleet-"

"No, not that," he turned to face her. "What did you say? I don't think she liked it too much."

"_Nu'ri ko-kai, _it means _younger sister_ in Vulcan. I can only presume that Syrran managed to transfer some of his memories to me during the meld-"

"Syrran was T'Pau's brother? And you have, what, a bit of his soul in your head too?"

"So it would appear."

"Anymore Vulcan mysticism I should be warned about?"

"Sir?"

"Nevermind," her captain sighed, as if he'd expected her response. "Well, hopefully the High Command won't try and bomb this place while _Enterprise_ is in orbit, so that should give them a bit of a head start, which is something, I guess. Though we still have no idea why the High Command _wants _to get rid of the Syrranites so badly. I mean, you said there were what? Seven, eight other splinter groups for them to choose to blame the Embassy bombing on? Why not blame one of them? Why bomb the Embassy in the first place?" His earlier agitation returning, "Was it to kill Forrest? Was that what they wanted? Or our Ambassador? Or were they all just caught up in something beyond the both of them? You say there has to be a greater reason, that the Syrranites couldn't have been responsible for the bombing, that they would know who would want to blame them, but they don't know any more than we do."

"That has yet to be determined."

"They're in the middle of such strong geomagnetic interference that I'd be surprised if an old-fashioned clockwork watch could work, let alone a comm that might actually let them know what's going on in the outside world. It's apparent they know less than we do."

"Just because T'Pau has not chosen to share her knowledge with you does not mean that she does not have the information we need."

"And, just 'cause you're apparently carrying her brother's _katra _as well as Surak's, you think she'll tell us?"

"That is an unlikely eventuality. But she is now the leader of the Syrranites and desires nothing more than to replace the current administration with one that understands that it cannot manipulate the facts to suit their needs without suffering the consequences."

"And you?"

"You've been manipulating the facts since we beamed down here – since you first suggested we beamed down here, really."

"That had not been my intention, Captain."

"Maybe not," he said in that way that human way that always made her a little anxious – the one where it became clear that there were too many emotions running wild inside them for logical thought to have a chance of surviving - "but you're – hell, I don't know _what_ you are, but you're supposed to have the answers and, every time I _think_ we _might_'ve found one, you ask a dozen more. And maybe it's not your fault, 'cause this Vulcan voodoo seems to be as forced upon you as it is me, but it feels like you're intentionally hiding something from me."

Because there was nothing else she could say that might illicit a reasonable response (and because she still felt slow, achy, as if all of the neural connections the hypospray had apparently disrupted had yet to reconnect, though she thought she could still hear Surak's voice niggling in the back of her head, whispering about war and the _Kir'Shara_), T'Pol gave a confused, "Sir?"

"Not just about this – though I do think you knew more about the Syrranites when we set out than you were letting on – but everything."

"Sir?" she asked again, because it was the only thing she could say. Perhaps she could have offered more on the Syrranites, but all she'd known of them before the mind-meld was their philosophy, which she'd thought the captain would not be interested in hearing. She was considering the most diplomatic way to explain this when he continued, explaining.

"The only things we talk about these days are work-related. I feel like I don't know anything about you – or Trip – any more."

"You stopped asking," T'Pol said, choosing words carefully so as not to appear accusatory. "I do not blame you for it – you are the captain, and, after we entered the Expanse, you were forced into a position far beyond that which Starfleet, in its naivety, had prepared you for. You preformed to the best of your abilities, but you retreated from your crew. Again, I do not blame you for it, and, as first officer, I should have done more to prevent it, but," she fell back on the only phrase she could safely use to describe the two hundred fifty-four days they'd spent in – to borrow one of Trip's phrases – _that hell hole_, "the Expanse was difficult on all of us and we are all still readjusting to normal ship's operations. But, irregardless of the recent strain between us, you are, have always been, and will always remain my friend, Jon.

"As to answer your other questions," T'Pol continued without pause, not wanting to linger on the uncomfortable emotions her words had stirred (for, against all logic, the captain _was_ her friend, though her attempts to determine how and when that had happened proved even less successful than attempting to do the same with her relationship with Trip), "I do not know if it was the High Command's intent to specifically kill Admiral Forrest, Ambassador Lefebvres, or any of the others who died, but I suspect that, again, the Syrranites know more than has yet been revealed. Likely, this is a reprisal for a specific slight against the High Command, as I believe Administrator V'Las would likely have chosen a less drastic action and claimed it upon a group his forces could reach with greater ease. The nature of the slight will likely shed light upon his ultimate goal."

Snorting, though with a curious half-smile on his face, "And how do we get these Syrranites to tell us what they did? From the way that this T'Pau went on while you were out, you'd think that butter wouldn't melt in their mouths."

"T'Pau respected her brother immensely. From what I can understand, he had been the primary party responsible for her care since she was quite young. She is still very young. It is to her credit that she is not overwhelmed by her grief, especially in such trying circumstances."

The captain moved to say something else, but paused before he began, looking towards the door with curiosity. Turning around, T'Pol glanced at the door as well and saw T'Pau standing there, not quite succeeding at keeping her expression completely blank. "Thank you, _os sa-kai_," she said quietly (and T'Pol's _katra_-filled mind flickered through half-a-dozen similar memories, some with a progressively younger T'Pau, others with other young Vulcans standing in doorways, the style of their clothing suggesting they were Surak's memories). Then, with more force, "The order has been given. The others are preparing to go into hiding in the deep desert. We, however, should make way for Shi'Kahr. If what you say is true, I believe I am responsible for the bombing of your embassy."

* * *

T'Pau had only spent the last two years of her life in The Forge. Though her brother, Syrran, had been responsible for her care for the better part of the last thirty years and had himself been in hiding for most that time, he'd seen it fit to send his sister to one of Vulcan's many academies when she'd reached the point where he became unable to teach her himself. The school had been the Raal Lyceum, which was known for its intense computer science program. She was in her final year of study when P'Jem scandal broke and, using her knowledge and some of the contacts her brother had cultivated in the High Command, she'd released a virus that had targeted the information that had been illegally obtained at the monastery and destroyed it.

The virus was only seventy-eight percent successful and was, eventually, traced back to T'Pau, but by that point she had already been sequestered in T'Kareth by her brother and was, therefore, out of V'Las' reach. The fallout from P'Jem had been severe enough that they could not have gone after her without loosing their grasp on the public.

The bombing of the Earth Embassy was a reason that the High Command could capitalize upon, despite the fact the Syrranites were responsible for the bombing, and could stop any public outcry over their drastic actions to rid themselves of the sect by claiming they were Andorian sympathizers for destroying the information gathered at P'Jem.

The latter was only a strong card to play if Vulcan went to war with Andoria.

"Such a war," T'Pol said after T'Pau had finished explaining her reasoning, leading them down paths she'd never been down but knew intimately, "would destabilize the entire quadrant."

"Why would V'Las want that?" Archer asked, carrying the _Kir'Shara, _which T'Pol had just handed him, with curiosity.

That, however, was a question without an answer.

* * *

a/n: Well, I promised it would be under 2 months before I updated again. And it is - barely. It's been a hell of a two months. And by that I do mean hell. Anyway, the only major differences in this chappie are that, a) I've made Syrran T'Pau's older brother, mostly because the idea struck my fancy. In this little world, Syrran was born in 2038, T'Pau in 2122, and their parents died in 2125. The only thing canon in that is T'Pau's birthyear, given she was 32 in 2154. And, b) T'Pol got a bit of Syrran's _katra_ too, mostly, again, 'cause it struck my fancy. Oh, and the chappie ends a little before the episode does, but this was getting a tad long and I wanted to get this posted.

Anyway, "Covenant" is episode 9 of season 7 of DS9, and "Nessecary Evil" is episode 8 of season 2 of that same series.


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